From Among the Dead
by reezoo
Summary: Jim Kirk, an ex-detective with an aversion to heights, doesn't believe in no-win scenarios. This belief is put to the test when he is asked to follow a mysterious man named Spock. Vertigo/Nutrek AU crossover. Kirk/McCoy, Kirk/Spock, other pairings.
1. Chapter 1

Jim Kirk did not believe in no-win scenarios.

Unthinkable odds? Sure. Hundred to one chances? Absolutely. _Million_ to one chances, with the outcome looking bleak to the point of despair? Why not; just let him at it and get the hell out of the way.

Whether it was charting his own young destiny in the windswept fields of Iowa, overcoming Hell in the scorched battlefields of Nazi occupied Europe, or securing justice in the mean streets of San Francisco, Jim trusted himself to find that one yes scenario out of a hundred that screamed no and pluck victory from the jaws of defeat. That it was usually done through a twisted combination of tenacious skill and, admittedly, sheer dumb luck didn't matter one bit to him. He had faith in his system of doing things, it had made him good at his job and at life, and he'd be damned if he was going to let a mishap in the line of duty change all that.

So when the doctor started throwing around phrases like "incurable acrophobia" and "nothing can be done" and "cause for a leave of absence" to describe Jim's newfound condition, he only half listened, smiled at the man, took the little prescription note for pain scribbled out in an illegible hand, and left without a backward glance.

Because he _would_ beat this; he had to. There was no other possible scenario.

•

"Tomorrow's the day, Bones." Jim frowned as his cane fell to the floor, again; balancing things on one finger was apparently harder than it looked. He reached down for it and winced.

"I'm almost afraid to ask, but the day for what? And was that wincing I heard?" Leonard McCoy asked, not bothering to look up from his drafting table by the window. He was wearing the kind of clothes he typically liked to work in, a combo of slacks and sweater vest with a white button-up shirt underneath, open at the collar and sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He looked a bit rumpled from his time hunched over the table drawing but otherwise presentable.

"Pshhh, _No_." Jim straightened up on the sofa facing the table and adjusted his own suit and tie, like a child caught in an act of wrongdoing. "And if I was wincing, which I most definitely _wasn't_, tomorrow's the day I finally get this ridiculous...thing taken off! After tomorrow the mere act of bending over will no longer be this awful event causing sounds you definitely aren't hearing." He looked over at Bones and grinned, his mind going to bad places, first and always. "And by bending over I'm of course referring to—"

"Ah, so the corset's coming off at last, Jamie-Boy?" McCoy looked up this time, brown eyes locking onto blue, smirking as Jim's face formed a horrified scowl of displeasure.

_"Chest compressor_, Bones. _Compressor_. Not corset, for the thousandth time. And Jamie-Boy, _really_?" He slumped into the couch and ran his hands through his dirty blond hair, well aware that he was coming very close to pouting like a five year old. "I think letting you meet my mother after the accident was the biggest mistake I have made _to date_, which, as you know, is really saying something."

Why he had ever allowed himself to believe that allowing his mother, the formidable Winona Kirk, to interact with his best friend would be a good idea, he didn't know; never had he seen two people gang up so fast on a poor broken man in a hospital bed. He wouldn't be surprised to learn at this point that they were secretly braiding friendship bracelets for each other or swapping family recipes. Though the idea of Bones making his mom's famous lasagna for him on a regular basis was awfully appealing...but now was not the time for that.

"There are some things that wound a man to the core, Bones, and at the top of the list is being called their mother's pet name for them while being shoved into feminine-sounding undergarments. Honestly, if you won't spare my manhood the tiniest bit of dignity after everything that's happened...do me a favor, just cut my balls off right now with your sharpest Exacto knife and be done with it. I can feel them shriveling up as we speak, swear to God."

"There are plenty of people in San Francisco who will vouch for the size of your manhood, Jim, you don't need me to confirm it for you." Bones rolled his eyes at the wicked smirk on Jim's delighted face and resumed sketching. "Forget I said that. Poor choice of words."

"By which you mean _amazing_ choice of words."

McCoy ignored him. "Besides, plenty of men wear corsets nowadays, it's nothing to get all worked up over."

Jim arched a brow. "Plenty, really? I need names."

"Which of course I'm not going to give you."

"And which I bet you've learned from _hands_-on experience." His eyebrows waggled suggestively. "Speaking of which, how's your love life anyway?"

"None of your damn business, and if you keep following that train of thought I _will_ find a very creative use for my extremely sharp Exacto knives."

Jim didn't need Bones' angry glare or tone of voice to know just how much he wanted this conversation to end; Jim refused to humor him and grinned instead. "I'm serious, Bones, when's the last time you went out with anyone? Male or female, doesn't matter to me, as you are very well aware."

"Extremely. Sharp. Knives. And my old medical scalpels are just down the hall."

Jim rolled his eyes and decided not to push it; his friend's eyes, suddenly narrow slits, were as close to murdering daggers as he wanted to get. "You're no fun today, Bones."

"Don't be such an infant. And if you would stop bothering me and let me get some blasted work done so I can make this deadline, as I've been _asking_ you to do for the past hour, I guarantee you'd find me in a better mood. Why don't we try _that_ theory out and see if it sticks?"

He didn't like trying out that theory because, well, that theory was _boring_; it required Jim shutting up and Bones not paying any attention to him for long periods of time. But Jim _did_ care about his best friend, and tried to be a good friend as much as he was able, and could see that under Bones' usual gruff facade lay an undercurrent of very real tension.

So he kept his mouth closed and eyes shut and peacefully rested, thinking of all the things he could do tomorrow once the..._chest compressor_ came off and he was a free man. Gradually, a comfortable level of silence drifted over the two of them and filled up the apartment.

Since Jim had time to kill, he spared a minute or two to cast his eyes about. Not much had changed since he'd last been here; the living room walls were the same shade of burnt yellow trimmed with blue that they always were, the shelves crammed with art supplies and the familiar selection of books that Jim had no plan on ever reading but nonetheless enjoyed looking at. There were some new sketches pinned to the walls and of course the bra doohickey by the table, but other than that he could see no major differences. It was a comfortable bachelor's apartment that fit its owner perfectly, and one of Jim's favorite places in the world, though he saw no reason to come out and say so.

Bones worked quietly, rerolling his sleeves to the elbow, unconsciously running a hand through his short yet somewhat floppy brown hair in that way he always did when he was trying to solve a frustrating problem, sharpening dulled graphite pencils and turning out sheet after sheet of discarded renderings.

Gradually Jim could see the tension visibly ease from his strong, wide shoulders and handsome features, eventually replaced by an obvious aura of satisfaction. Jim knew from countless hours of McCoy watching that it meant he had figured out a solution to his blasted design problems. _Finally._

Jim being Jim, his curiosity got the better of him, and he hoisted himself off the couch, careful to not jostle the area where the compressor was wrapped around his midsection. As he walked over to his studiously drawing friend, his gaze first studied the odd-looking brassiere perched above the drafting table, then drifted down to rest on the papers scattered across the table's angled surface.

Bones' rendering of the bra was, as always, technically flawless. The woman wearing the bra in his drawing (sadly, she did not come _with_ it, unless Bones had stashed her somewhere in his apartment that Jim hadn't noticed) was proportionally exact; if there was one thing Bones knew well it was the anatomy of the human body, something he had retained from his days studying medicine. She was, however, drawn in a style that was uniquely Bones', with a curve of her magnificent golden head and a glint to her sky-blue eyes that was undeniably captivating.

Bones had a gift for bringing personality in his illustrated models to life, although they were no more flesh and bone than the two dimensional paper they were created on. It was what made him so sought after as a fashion illustrator, kept him in his nice studio apartment on Telegraph Hill with a breathtaking view of the San Francisco hills. It also paid for his art supplies and the obscene amounts of alcohol he drank (which he constantly argued _was_ a legitimate art supply, a comment that Jim always ignored.)

This gift Bones had was one of the first things that Jim had been attracted to—way back during their time in the war together, sketching their buddies in his pocket sketchbook with amazing realism—even though his own interest in art was almost nil. Well, that and Bones' oh-so charming personality. Jim grinned at the thought and shifted his attention to comparing the real bra to the drawings in closer detail; Bones' renderings were fine, but as for the bra itself...

"What on earth are they making you draw?" He poked at the bra a little as he scrutinized it, ruining its placement on the thin piece of wire holding it aloft over the table. McCoy swatted at his hands; Jim's reflexes were too good for McCoy to get an actual hit in, so he settled instead for his trademark glare.

"It's a brassiere, Jim. You know about them, and I'm pretty sure from _hands_-on experience."

Jim grinned, enjoying his own words being thrown back at him. "Oh trust me, Bones, I _know_. But they're making you draw something that's not finished; it doesn't even have straps yet!"

"Ah see, that's where you're wrong, kid." Bones' eyes lit up. "It's revolutionary design. Some young Scottish aircraft engineer—name of Scott, from down the peninsula—worked it out in his off hours. It works on the principle of the cantilever bridge. See this piece here?" He pointed to a band near the bottom of the cups that circled around the sides but didn't connect, right where a women's rib cage would be. "That's the part that does all the actual work a bra should do, no back or shoulder straps required. I'm pretty damned impressed in spite of myself, that the kid examined the bare bones of its basic function and design and came up with a radically new solution."

Jim smiled, pleased; "bare bones" was McCoy's much-beloved catch phrase, as he was a minimalist at heart. How many times had he dragged Jim to some godforasken museum and talked his ear off about a stupid rectangle painted white or something, soliliquizing at large about how the artist had whittled it down to its simplest, purest form, gotten to its essence, distilled it, and all those other artsy catchphrases Jim could honestly care less about? Hence the affectionately coined nickname. If Bones was throwing around his favorite term and waxing poetic, then this engineer must definitely be a genius, and Bones was most definitely in a better mood.

Which also meant Bones' theory was right after all. Damn. If pressed, Jim would deny it to the grave.

"That's some hobby to have, Bones; very enterprising of him. And highly altruistic I'm sure." He grinned broadly; McCoy caught the expression and smirked.

"You're just jealous because he'll soon be making piles of money from a hobby that basically let him think about women's breasts all day."

Jim laughed. "You got me there old man. Who knew that discovering a space-age uplift could be so rewarding?" Designed by a Scot named Scott no less. The world was a bizarre place.

"Mighty impressive for a kid to figure out in his spare time." McCoy paused, then continued on. "Speaking about spare time, what about yours? What are you going to do now?" Bones was concentrating on his drawings and kept his voice seemingly light and impersonal, but Jim sensed it was a loaded question. So naturally he decided to keep his answer flippant and evasive.

"What, after the chest compressor comes off? I think you mean _who_, not _what_, Bones." As if on cue came his trademark lecherous grin.

McCoy rolled his eyes. "Get your mind out of the gutter for five minutes." He set his pencil down and looked at him, really looked at him. "What are you going to do after tomorrow and with the rest of your life, Jim? You told me you were planning on quitting the police force, which is a damn shame as you made a mighty good detective. Is that still your plan?"

So he _had_ been right about the loaded question thing. Jim let out a breath, steeling himself for a conversation he had been putting off for as long as possible. "I have no choice, Bones."

Bones snorted. "That's a lie and you know it. There's always a choice, you're just being idiotic. There are still plenty of police jobs available to you; I realize they may not lead to being Chief of Police someday, like you wanted, but—

Jim laughed, bitter and hollow. "Yeah, Bones, I really see myself at a desk job. Mr. office grunt, pushing papers and filing away cases conducted in the field that should have been _mine_, day in and day out, all because off my...condition. Fine," he growled, sensing that Bones' new look of displeasure was related to his constant use of euphemisms, "my acrophobia. I can't climb a set of goddamn stairs some days without having a full blown panic attack." He looked down at the loathsome cane in his hand, his voice soft yet full of steel. "I refuse to allow myself to settle for an ordinary life, Bones. I can't do it, and I won't, police force be damned."

"Ordinary is a subjective term. And everyone has phobias, Jim; don't feel so put upon. Mine's aviophobia, yours is acrophobia."

"Yeah, but yours hasn't exacly forced you to resign from a job you love and, pardon my humility, are damned good at, now has it?"

"True. But it dashed any plans I might have had in the war of being a fighter pilot."

Jim looked at him in disbelief. "Since when was that ever a dream of yours anyway? Like you really wanted to be shoved into a tiny cockpit; coffins with wings I believe you called them. You were born to be the best damn medical officer in the whole army and you know it."

Bones brushed off Jim's compliment, but smiled. "Maybe so. Nothing wrong with being where you'll be of the most use."

"I should hope not. You saved a lot of good men, including me if you recall, so I believe I _do_ know what I'm talking about. And I also know what I'm talking about when I say that my acrophobia still trumps your aviophobia any day of the week."

"If you say so." McCoy looked at him, his concern obvious. He stood up from the table and came over to Jim, brushing his hand over Jim's forehead, as if checking for a fever would solve the problem. "Have you had any dizzy spells this week?"

Jim pulled away from Bones' touch. He didn't begrudge him the contact; he knew his friend's medical training was hard for him to shake, even now, and that his own foolish actions didn't any help in keeping that training at bay. But that didn't mean he had to _like_ being fussed over like a child. Especially because Bones' medical diagnoses usually involved swooping in with hypodermics full of God knows what; Jim often suspected it was more of a passive aggressive device that Bones used to get back at him rather than a strict medical necessity.

"A few. And if you keep clucking over me, mother hen, I'll have one right now out of spite." But his voice carried no real sting; his needling and wheedling aside, Bones was only trying to help, after all. And finally paying his full attention; about time.

Having all that concerned energy focused solely on him loosened something up inside, allowed some of his bravada to slip and left him a bit more honest. "Plus I'm still having that same damn nightmare almost every night." Bones' brows furrowed, knowing exactly what that meant.

As much as Jim loathed the vertigo that came from the acrophobia, loathed his ridiculous compressor, and loathed seeing the dreams he had planned for his life as police chief slip away, he felt like all of that could be manageable if only the nightmares would stop. They were the one thing he could not escape or compensate for, and for a man who believed that anything was possible, the idea of his brain betraying him so completely was hard to take.

Jim suddenly felt very exposed. He stepped away from Bones and went over to the panel of windows that wrapped around a full wall of the sunny apartment, careful not to get too close to the edge lest he aggravate his vertigo, and studied the landscape beyond. Coit Tower was no more than three blocks from Bones' place, and it loomed large on the right side of the view. He could feel his fists clenching and made no move to stop them.

"I can't let let this thing lick me, Bones, let it demote me to a sad half-person, trapped into a life I don't want by my own goddamned mind."

McCoy's posture softened, and he came over and gently reached out, resting his hand on Jim's tense forearm. Jim let him do it in spite of feeling very raw inside; the warm contact was reassuring. "I know you won't. But you need to find something to do while you're working this thing out or you _will_ go crazy. I know you."

Bones' words unwound something in him and helped dissipate the anger. He looked over at him with a grateful smile.

"Way ahead of you. I have developed a theory of my own of how to get rid of this damn acrophobia, and my first order of business is to test it, right here, right now, with you as my witness."

"Oh really, Jim?" Bones arched one brow. "A theory that the doctors haven't discovered yet? Forgive me for not turning to you earlier for your expert medical opinion; seems awfully narrow-minded now that I think about it. By all means, enlighten me on your brilliant and peer-reviewed cure for acrophobia."

Jim didn't know why Bones had to be so damn sarcastic about it; all good breakthroughs had to start somewhere, right? He grinned and put on his best persuasive face.

"Hear me out, Bones. I believe that if I gradually adjust myself to ever increasing heights in stages, like a kid slowly wading into the ocean, bit by bit I can lick myself of it."

"Jim, I took the liberty of talking to an ex-colleague of mine also living in the Bay area, who specializes in psychology. Not that I don't trust your doctor to know what he's doing, but as he strongly felt nothing _could_ be done—"

"—which is complete and utter bullshit, by the way—"

"Yes, Jim, you've expressed to me many times just how you feel about your doctor's diagnosis." He said it the way a parent explains something for the hundredth time to a very small child; patiently but with a hint of exasperation. Which he knew drove Jim up the wall, damn him. "Anyway, Christine is the head physician over at the Park Hill Sanitarium, so I figured she'd have a better grasp on the modern techniques for curing what you have than he would. And _don't_ look at me like that, I don't think you're insane. I just thought a second opinion by an expert in the field couldn't hurt any."

Jim was sure the look on his face spoke volumes about how little he trusted this doctor friend of Bones' to find a solution that would top his own. I mean, not that she _couldn't_, it was just that his idea was so badass. "And what are _her_ amazing theories?"

"Well, that it's possible the dreams you are experiencing might be psychological manifestations of your guilt, and that once you forgave yourself for what happened that night they would go away, perhaps forever. She feels talking about what you experienced might be the best way to do that." Bones saw Jim's look of disbelief but kept going. "As for your acrophobia, because of the type of trauma you suffered, she thinks it will take another great shock for you to get over it, similar to the one triggering it in the first place."

Jim furrowed his brow. "And in your personal medical opinion, you agree with her that these are bona fide ways to cure me? Discussing my _feelings_ and putting myself through even more trauma? What, watching one guy fall off a roof wasn't enough, I apparently need _two_ now?" Jim looked into his eyes, his annoyance obvious. "Pardon my skepticism, Bones."

"Dammit, Jim, I'm an artist not a doctor. But as horrible as it sounds, she says that's what it'll take to snap you back to normal and I believe her. And since you're not going to be hanging off of roof ledges again any time soon, I think it's safe to say that any cure for your acrophobia involving heights will be long in coming. That includes this cockamamie scheme of yours."

"You were one once," Jim pointed out, clinging to anything that would help him change the subject.

Bones looked over at him, confused. "Was what once?"

"A licensed physician."

"You want more clarification in my expletives?" Bones sighed, sounding a bit put upon. "Fine. Dammit, Jim, I'm an artist not a medically licensed physician."

Jim cocked his head, considering. "It doesn't have the same ring to it, does it? Not as dramatic. Never mind; just go with the first way you said it and I'll just pretend it's more accurate than it actually is."

"Jim, so help me..."

"So, back to my theory!" He chirped, jumping away from a glaring Bones and running over to the kitchen, returning with a footstool and holding it up proudly. "Behold, step one. Literally."

Bones rolled his eyes at the admittedly horrendous pun and looked at the object critically. "A footstool, really?"

Jim set the stool down by Bones and shucked off his deep brown suit jacket, tossing it onto the nearby sofa."Well, I _was_ going to start off my experiment with the Golden Gate Bridge," said Jim amusedly as he rolled up his shirtsleeves, "though I quickly realized hey, what kind of crappy challenge is _that_ for an ex member of San Francisco's finest? But for you to be involved I needed something more portable and readily available. So I figured what the hell, let's go with the footstool." He stepped on it and looked straight ahead.

"See, Bones? Up...," he looked up to the ceiling, "...down..." looked down to the floor, "...up...down." He steeled himself for how his body might react, but felt nothing. He looked over at Bones and grinned. "Not bad for my first test run, eh? Cross footstools off the list, my friend."

"I'm so proud." The sarcasm in Bones' voice belied his eyes, which showed he was getting more interested in where this experiment was headed despite himself. "Here, Rapunzel, let me get you a higher tower to perch on." He went over to his closet and began rummaging around.

Jim arched a brow. "Rapunzel? Really?"

"It's a children's story about a princess that lives in a tower; Joanna used to love it when I'd read it to her."

Jim rolled his eyes; maybe so, but he wasn't Bones' little girl, now was he? "No, I get the story reference fine, Bones, what I don't get is why I'm the princess in this scenario."

"And you never will; that's the beauty of it. Now try this one instead." Bones returned with a multi-tiered monster of a stepstool; more like a mini ladder than anything else. Jim decided to ignore his friend's incorrigible grin and got on the first step and did his test; no reaction. He went up to the next step; same thing. At the third step he glanced over to where Bones was now eyeing him critically, back in doctor mode and watching for for any telltale signs of Jim's vertigo to appear, and shot him a grin.

"Look at that. Kirk four, vertigo zero. Next thing you know we'll be heading to the Top of the Mark for a celebration drink, and look out of those giant windows and toast to kicking acrophobia right on its ass."

"Careful, kid. You're not Jackson Pollock yet, after all."

Jim gave him a blank stare. Bones stared back.

"Jackson Pollock? The artist who died last year, painted by getting up on stepladders and drizzling the paint down onto the canvas? Good Lord, I've know I've told you this before; please tell me you haven't forgotten already."

Jim gave him a look. "Painting with the canvas on the floor? You _do_ realize how odd your artist friends are, right?"

"I'll be sure and tell them at the next gallery opening. Or you could come with me next week and tell them yourself."

"Maybe I will; it's a date then." Jim grinned as Bones rolled his eyes then looked away, tugging at his sleeves again.

Finally the name came to him. "Oh, right, the guy whose last name I mistook for a racial slur! The one whose work looked like it had chocolate syrup dripped all over everything."

Bones sighed. "Yes, Jim, that would be the one. So glad to know just how your skills in deciphering one artist from the other are strategically honed, for future reference."

"Look, unless you add the phrase 'bare bones' when introducing an artist's work to me, I assume they're not important enough to remember. So really, if you're upset about me forgetting Polock you only have yourself to blame." Jim purposely mispronounced the name.

"Pollock!" Bones corrected loudly, giving him a death glare. Jim smiled; God, Bones was fun to tease sometimes. When it came to art the man was like a sensitive brown-haired balloon, easy to pop. "Get up on the next step, idiot."

Jim reached the next one fine, and started looking up and down proudly. Then his eye strayed over to the window, and from his position on the stepladder he caught a glimpse of the street below. Four stories down.

Jim's body tensed up. He could feel the room spin, heard a gasp that only could have come from his mouth. He felt strong arms engulf him and a familiar voice fervently saying his name just before everything around him went black.

::

Author's Notes:

I plan on listing my refs, research facts, direct quotes from Vertigo I used, and other misc stuff related to writing the fic at the end of each chapter. So very very tl;dr; will not offend me if you skip it, I promise. Let's begin:

• I set the story in 1957, the year of the Vertigo screenplay I was able to find online. Hitch usually set his later stories in the present, so it seemed logical to set it then, plus the year 1957 dovetailed really well with the history my story revolves around and with everything I wanted to happen.

• The title comes from the original French story that the movie was based on. I like the obvious tie-in with the movie, plus I feel the title is a perfect summary of everything the story is about. So it worked out perfectly, hooray.

• Midge has a relatively small role in the movie compared to the leads, perhaps for time reasons, but Bones demanded a larger presence in my version and I was more than happy to give it to him. So trust me, he will be around quite a bit.

• According to my version of the Vertigo screenplay, Midge's apartment was originally in the Russian Hill area just like Scotty, but according to the Hitchcock Wiki (and confirming via street view on Google Maps) it was actually filmed in the Telegraph Hill/North Beach area. Same views and everything. So there you go.

• I'm trying to insert little bits and pieces from the two movies as much as possible. Jamie-Boy kind of sprung from Midge calling Scotty Johnny-O (and from the awesomeness that is the TOS ep "I Mudd"), though in this case Bones uses it as a way to antagonize Jim and not just as a pet name. And I like the idea of his mom giving it to him; Winona doesn't appear much, but I'm going to include her where I can.

• Bones illustrating underwear makes me smile. :D All the bra and cantilever bridge stuff comes from Vertigo.

• Yeah, modified how the nickname Bones came to be. Hope it still makes sense.

• Hitch was quoted once as saying that when he was thinking up his next idea for a film, he would choose a location and then set a story around it. He chose one of the Vertigo screenwriters specifically because of their extensive knowledge of San Francisco. Because of this the movie becomes a great "portal of the past" in seeing SF as it was in the late 50's. So it was very important to me that the city became another character in the story, a silent observer watching with us as the events unfold. Because of this I decided to leave the SF in my AU as it was back then; no changes, no modern Trek technology or situations. It is hopefully, if I've done my job right, the only unchanged character in the entire story. Thus I have worked very hard to be as accurate as I can as far as locations and events the city and the time period, to do San Francisco justice. If I've failed, please let me know so I can change things.

• I am a major, major Hitchcock geek. And while I love and respect utterly everything that he accomplished with Vertigo, I quickly realized that I needed to make this story my own. So this is no Vince Vaugh Psycho remake with all the shots aligned just as Hitch did them; this is taking the basic plot and pieces of his brilliant movie and reworking them into something that can successfully coexist with the Star Trek universe. So while there are deliberate changes, I hope my love for the original Vertigo as is comes across.

• The version of Vertigo that we know and love was made around 1956-1958, in a fascinating period of American history. In San Francisco in particular, abstract expressionism took hold and was reshaping the arts. The Beats (old-school hippies) were in full swing; Ginsberg had recently shocked the world and was accused of indecency for his recitation of Howl. Because of this, I felt that a story taking place in San Francisco in this period, with homosexual relationships in the foreground, would not only be an interesting change for the movie's original main characters but also be historically relevant. I don't know how much of the spirit of that period is getting into the story, but I wanted to let you know it's in my mind as I write it. Since my Bones is an artist living in the city who knows everybody, I might try to include more of it later on.

• Top of the Mark is a restaurant at the very top of the Mark Hopkins hotel in the Nob Hill area (yes, original name is original.) It apparently has an amazing panoramic view of the city; definitely a place to avoid if you have vertigo and don't want to cause a scene.

• Jackson Pollock died the year before my story takes place; most of his drip paintings were done in the late 40's a decade earlier.

• When I told my sister that I had an idea for a ST AU fanfic, and that instead of putting the prompt up on the Kink!Meme that I would write it myself, her exact reply was "you mean with sentences? And paragraphs?" D: Epic fail is epic, because yeah, story writing and I have long been estranged. Like years and years estranged. And then Kimk!Meme ended, so I had no choice but to write it. But I hope if my writing is really rusty it can be overlooked to appreciate the idea I'm going for, if not the execution.


	2. Chapter 2

To say that the call from Christopher Pike had been a surprise was an understatement. After all, it's not every day that an old friend of your long-dead father phones with a request to come by and see him, especially when you didn't even know he'd relocated to the Bay area to begin with.

The idea of spending an afternoon with the man—reliving the good old days of when his dad was alive, how heroic he'd been in the First World War and how proud Jim should be of him—made him want to break out in hives. Why people routinely tortured themselves with that kid of crap he would never understand. The way Jim saw it, sentimentality, nostalgia, dwelling, reminiscing—whatever you called it, it was a deceitful emotion. It allowed weak people to disconnect from living fully in the present by foolishly burying themselves in the past. He had no use for such stupidity; it made for a sloppy detective and a miserable human being.

Honestly, what good had sentimentality ever done anybody? It made criminals dig their own graves by returning to the scene of the crime or stubbornly keep damning evidence that could later be used against them. It made people like his mother stay rooted in grief over the death of a loved one and never bother trying to move on. And according to Bones, it had caused the rift leading to the dissolution of his marriage and the estrangement of his little girl. So yes, Jim had plenty of examples of people in his own life destroyed by the enticing indulgence of sentimentality, and he frankly wanted no part of it.

But of all his father's war buddies, Pike had been one of the least annoying, dropping by from time to time to visit the wife and sons of his fallen friend out of fond comraderie; but not staying long, not talking much, not inflicting the past on them—in short, being amazing by pretty much leaving them alone. The address he gave Jim over the phone was in the Mission district, near skid row; maybe the man was hard on his luck and just wanted to see a friendly face—or press him for a free beer or two. It wouldn't kill Jim to provide both for one afternoon. And hey, Jim had also been in the service since the last time they'd talked; maybe they could compare war wounds or something.

Besides, if his mother found out (and somehow she always did when it came to things connected with his father, like a sixth sense), she would be appalled, and he'd have her on the phone long-distance from Iowa yelling his ear off. Which was never, ever, _ever_ a good thing.

So he agreed, trying to make his voice sound more pleased than it really was. Because really, the man had always seemed harmless enough, and it was the least he could do. Never let it be said of James Tiberius Kirk that he was a heartless bastard.

So it was surprising when on the scheduled day he drove south to the address Pike gave him and found it wasn't a seedy dive at all but a large company on the waterfront, Miyajima Shipping. He asked a security guard about meeting with Pike and was directed to a very large, very ornate main office, furnished in expensive wood paneling and wine-red accents.

Pike greeted him with a firm handshake and the same smile and glint in his steel-blue eyes that Jim remembered from his younger days. The greying hair and lined face were, of course, newer developments.

"Good to see you, Jim, glad you could make it. Care for a drink?"

Jim grinned. "Still a bit early in the day for me, thanks."

Pike smiled back, motioned for Jim to sit down. "Thought you'd say that, but figured I'd ask anyway." The two men took their seats, Pike the leather high-backed chair in front of the large carved desk, Jim the low-backed one directly in front of it. He looked around the office curiously as he sat down; his ever-roaming detective's eye was a habit he was finding hard to break. He noticed a great number of prints of San Francisco, all showing it the way it was way back before the turn of the century. Pike followed his gaze and smiled.

"Great, aren't they? I sometimes wish I had been born in the untamed West of that time. A man could carve out his destiny then, sink his teeth into freedom and power he had scarcely allowed himself to dream about, never let it go. But that era has, sadly, disappeared forever." Pike leaned back in his chair and studied Jim. "Have you heard from your mother lately?"

Jim turned his head from the pictures to look at Pike. Well, _that_ was a sudden change of topic.

Pike seemed to realize this, smiled and offered an explanation. "I sort of dropped out of sight, haven't kept in touch with old friends as well as I should have. Just curious as to how she's holding up nowadays."

Jim relaxed in his chair. "She was good the last time I heard from her. Singlehandedly holding down the Iowa homestead, as usual."

Probably terrorizing the seasonal farmhands helping out with the current harvest; God, that was always fun to watch. She hadn't let Jim come home to help this year, what with his condition. He was positive that as long as the shade was pulled down in the airplane window he'd make the flight out there just fine, but she had refused to let him even risk it. She'd insisted that a plane was no place for a panic attack, and that if he even tried coming out as a surprise for her she'd just march him straight back to the airport and send his butt back to California. The steel in her voice had left Jim with no doubt that she'd make good on her threat, so he gave in; he knew when and when not to cross his mother.

Pike's eyes lit up at the information. "That sounds just like her. An amazing woman, your mother."

Jim smiled in agreement. "She was just here visiting, came to check up on me after the accident. It's too bad we didn't know you were living so close by, the two of you could have met up for drinks or something."

Pike nodded. "That is regrettable."

"How _did_ you find your way out to San Francisco anyway?" Damn, there went his mind into detective mode again. Pike didn't seem to mind though.

"Well, after the war—our war, not your war—I got into sailing, worked my way up to being captain of a local shipping company back East. Got hired by Miyajima to captain their cargo ships on the West coast, came out here, the rest is history." He smiled. "I've been a partner in the business for about fifteen years now. Definitely a leg up in the world."

I'd say, thought Jim; judging by the office alone he was doing quite well for himself. Though running a shipping company sounded rather boring. Jim stood up, and Pike's eyebrows rose with him.

"Do you mind if I stand and wander around while we talk? Old habit I can't quite get rid of." Jim gave him a grin letting him know that he knew it was dumb, but not so dumb that he wouldn't do it if given the opportunity.

Pike grinned back at him, amused. "Of course not." Jim meandered over to a glass case full of ship models, eyeing them with interest. The large windows off to the right of Pike's desk framed a striking view of several giant shipping freighters, floating in the water as their cargo was being loaded and unloaded. He drew closer to the window for a better look until he was practically flush with the glass.

Pike looked at him, concerned. "Are you sure you should get so close? I read about your accident in the paper; they mentioned you had developed, well..."

"My condition, you mean? The acrophobia?" Jim still couldn't believe that some hack of a reporter covering the accident had gone off in his ridiculous article about it; like it was anyone's business but Jim's to know just how screwed up he was in the head. The paper must have been way down on their gossip quota for the month to throw that nugget of information out there.

Pike nodded, obviously grateful to him for not dancing around the term. "Yes, that."

Jim smiled to put him at ease and let him know it was a safe topic of discussion. "Trust me, I know my own limits by now. No tall stairs, no precarious heights. I've practically got it down to a science, what I can and cannot do to keep my vertigo at bay."

"Any progress, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Well, I won't be climbing up Coit tower any time soon, if that's what you mean. My doctors say there's a good chance that it will be a permanent thing I'll just learn to deal with, but I plan on conquering it anyway."

"And there is a good possibility of that happening?" asked Pike, obviously interested.

Jim gave him a biting smile. "The doctors all say no. But I've never put much stock in listening to the asisinine opinions of fools and pessimists." Time and time again people liked to underestimate him for some reason; Jim loved proving them wrong.

Pike smiled. "No, you certaintly do not. Winona's shared some of your more colorful adventures with me over the years. Stealing a car and joyriding it off of a cliff, for one, because your uncle was going to sell it. I think you were ten at the time?"

Jim smiled broadly at the memory; that had been one fantastic day. Technically he hadn't _stolen_ the car, as it had been his dad's; he had just commandeered it. And he never would have driven it into the quarry to begin with if that stupid cop hadn't just minded his own business instead of chasing him. After getting a cop's badge and learning for himself just how annoying punk-ass kids could actually be, Jim had more sympathy for the cop that had been stuck with chasing him down. But back at that age? Not so much.

It had been an important day for him, that joyride on the backroads. Seeing the pristine Corvette—one of the last momentos of his father—crash into the bottom of the quarry pit had opened up something in him. It became one of those defining childhood moments where things finally clicked into perspective and helped him choose the path he would take; for Jim at that moment his path had settled on devil-may-care, and he had taken it and never looked back.

The day had been hell on his mom, though. He was pretty sure _everyone_ had heard the car story, she'd made sure of it, trying to shame him into never pulling a stunt like that ever again. It hadn't worked, of course, had the opposite effect in fact, but he couldn't fault her for trying. Actually he would have been more surprised if Pike _hadn't_ heard about it at some point.

Jim grinned. "Ah, yes, the good old days. Speaking of which, is there a particular reason you asked me here?"

He fully expected Pike to take the opening and run with it, launch into one of his undoubtedly impressive war stories or something. Then they would chat for a bit, Jim would make his excuses, shake Pike's hand and leave, duty done and conscious clear.

Pike leaned farther back in his chair and surveyed him. "Actually, yes. I need you to follow someone for me."

Okay, not _quite_ the answer he had been expecting. Jim could feel himself staring. "You mean tail them?"

"Exactly."

"I hate to break it to you, but I don't do private detective work."

"I figured as much. But I was hoping you might this one time, as a personal favor to me."

Stupid rich presumptuous bastard. "And why would I do that?" Jim gave him a smile that was not exactly pleasant. "No offense I hope." Like he had nothing better to do with his time than play detective? Okay, he'd admit that at the moment he _didn't_, but that didn't mean he was free to spend his waking hours tagging along behind some housewife as she got her hair done or something.

Pike returned the smile back at him. "None taken. Personal interest in helping out an old acquaintance, maybe? The thrill of solving a mystery? And I plan to compensate you quite handsomely as well, if that works into your decision at all."

It didn't _not_ work into his decision; Jim was of pretty independent means, but a little extra money never hurt. He would never say that out loud though. "What is this mystery, and who do you want me to follow?"

Pike steepled his hands together in front of him, regarded Jim solemnly. "The person is my partner in Miyajima Shipping, Spock Grayson. No, not for business reasons; he'd never do anything to harm the interests of the company and I would trust him with my life. Something of a more personal nature."

Pike got up and went over to the window himself, standing near Jim and surveying the loading and unloading of the ships.

"What if I told you that Spock has a condition that is altering his perception of reality?"

"Condition?" Jim raised an eyebrow; he knew just how vague that word could be, the many types of issues it could hide.

"That might not be the right word; more of a state of mind, I guess you could say. But I'm afraid some harm may come to him from it."

Jim looked over to Pike curiously. "Harm from whom? Or what?"

"A person. Someone...someone dead." He saw Jim's brows furrow, his face grow incredulous. He put his hands in his suit pockets and returned to staring out at the ships.

"Do you believe that someone out of the past, someone dead, can enter and take possession of a living being?"

"No." Jim didn't waste a second in his reply. "And I didn't take you as someone who would believe such a thing either."

Pike had the sense to look slightly chagrined. "Normally you'd be correct. But this is no normal situation." He turned fully to face Jim this time and looked him dead in the eye, completely serious. "I need you to follow Spock and see if you can determine if his mind is being taken over by someone from his past, who it might be, and if so just how much danger this puts him in."

Jim stared at him, utterly speechless. Only one word could encapsulate his feelings perfectly at this moment.

"Bullshit."

Pike raised an eyebrow. "I assure you it's what Spock believes is happening to him. He is half Japanese, you see, and they have a special word for it, ikiryo. It is when a piece of the spirit of an unstable person leaves and enters another, draining their new host of their energy and eventually killing them. He listed many stories in Japanese history where this occurred."

Jim grew irritated; his blue eyes flashed. "No, I'm not calling bullshit on your stupid _theory_. Just on the fact that you'd think it's perfectly fine to make me drag my ass over here and waste my time with, what, a superstitious hunch from your certifiably crazy business partner?" Jim let the scorn drip from his words as he turned on his heel and headed towards the door.

"My advice? Throw him in the nearest sanitarium and let them sort his scrambled head out. I have a doctor friend with connections to one of the best in the Bay area, if you need some type of recommendation to get the guy admitted." He grabbed his hat from the stand and placed it on his head, adjusted the brim, and turned to face Pike. "Are we done? It's been good to see you again, but I really have other things I need to be doing."

Pike looked at him, disappointment evident on his face. "I'm done. And I don't blame you for your disbelief; I can hardly believe it myself." Pike came over to him, hesitated before speaking. "There's just one thing I wanted to ask you, and then you're free to go."

Jim looked at him warily, still affronted, but nodded. Pike smiled, relieved, and motioned back to his desk. "Can we sit down?" Jim rolled his eyes but returned to his chair in front of the desk. Pike resumed his seat as well, leaning over the desk towards Jim. He surveyed him briefly before talking.

"Look, Jim, I know what I'm about to ask is delicate and very personal. I apologize in advance for offending you, because I'm sure that I will. I would never ask it unless it was of the gravest importance." He paused to gather his thoughts, then continued.

"Before contacting you, I did some checking on what type of soldier and cop you had been, to determine if you were right for the job. Plus I'll admit that I was curious to see how you had turned out, all things considered. I hope it doesn't insult you, my doing that."

Jim shrugged; it wasn't like he really had anything to hide. At least Pike was being honest. Plus it exhibited rational behavior, so he knew that in spite of spouting off with all this Japanese ghost nonsense, the man couldn't be _that_ crazy.

Pike's answering smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Good. Well, in my investigations I heard a lot of things about you, some good, some bad, some..." He trailed off and looked away, his hesitation becoming noticeable. It was as if he was trying to decide whether or not to say something horribly rude. As Jim had always known him as someone unused to being at a loss for words, the situation fit the man awkwardly, like a pair of too-small shoes. He waited for Pike to continue.

"...I'm really not sure of the best way to say this. A friend of mine, a designer in the area, had heard rumors about the circumstances surrounding your doctor friend, McCoy I believe is the name, abandoning his medical practice and coming to San Francisco."

Jim looked over at Pike, confusion on how Bones could possibly fit into this conversation clearly written on his face. "Yeah, he moved here after he separated from his wife. What of it?"

"Well, they said it also had to do with his...was I correct in hearing that after he moved here, you and the doctor had...the two of you were..."

Jim could see where the Pike was going with this and grew very still, his eyes narrowing into slits. "Were _what_?"

Pike sighed. "_Acquainted_. Do I really have to come out and say it?"

The double meaning in Pike's words was unmistakable. Jim clenched his fists, his eyes glittering with unmasked anger. "_No_, you don't. And I don't see how that is any of your damn business." God, he sounded like Bones just then, but really didn't care. Jim wondered if his dad would mind very much if he punched one of his old war buddies in the face.

Pike sighed. "I'm well aware it's not, Jim. Again, I'm sorry for treading on such a personal matter. But I have to know if you are at least sympathetic to..." Pike leaned forward and rested his arms on the desk, looking at Jim imploringly. "You see, Spock and I are...of a similar acquaitance, so to speak. Partners in every conceivable way."

Jim's eyes widened a bit at that revelation. He never would have guessed that Pike of all people leaned that direction.

"I care deeply for him, Jim; he is an amazing man. I'm afraid some harm will come to him very soon, whether from his own mind or this ikiryo thing he believes so strongly in. In either case I will need outside help in locating the problem and curing him. We very much need to keep our...relationship as it is discreet, for the sake of the business. If word got out, about us being together or Spock's current condition, then it would most definitely ruin us, just as it did your friend McCoy. I don't think I need to stress to you just how important it is that I prevent that from happening."

Jim's face and shoulders relaxed, comprehension shining through. Pike wasn't trying to be a bastard, he was just being cautious; completely understandable. Pike noticed the change in his attitude, leaned back in his chair and searched Jim's eyes as if there was some answer there he was hoping to find.

"In spite of your recklessness, you were always a good kid, Jim, had a good heart. Trust me, in this day and age that's a compliment. And by all accounts you were a model soldier and later on an amazing detective, one of the best the force ever had. I felt that if these rumors concerning you and your friend were true, then not only would you be the best for the job, but you of all people would be the most understanding of our situation. That I could trust you to protect our secrets once your investigation was over, no matter what your findings were or how profitable exposing us might be."

Jim's eyes softened. _You of all people_. Yes, Jim knew full well what it meant to be discriminated against. "Your secrets are always safe with me, no matter what type of _acquaintances_ I do or do not have. Or you have. I hope I can relieve you of that worry at least."

Pike's smile reached his eyes this time; obviously he was in a much better place now that they were standing on this side of the conversation. "I am relieved."

Jim smiled at his attempt at humor, then looked off to the pictures on the walls for a moment, thinking. No intelligent, hard-headed businessman—and that's what he assumed Pike was—would approach a PI or detective for help in a situation like this, risk exposure and blackmail and destroying everything they had worked so hard for, unless they truly believed something was horribly wrong. Whatever was going on with this man, whether or not it was supernatural, must be serious indeed.

Jim sighed and collapsed back into the chair across from Pike. "Fine, you've got me. Tell me more about the facts of the case surrounding this Spock guy, what evidence you have so far."

Pike grinned, knowing he had scored a point in his favor, though Jim hadn't actually agreed to anything yet. "What makes me believe he might have suddenly been possessed, you mean." He paused, then launched into a full laundry list of details.

"He will have moments of clarity, when he is his normal self. Then he gets a distant look to him and something in him changes; his movements, his voice, even how he carries himself. He can go into this mode anytime, day or night. He wanders, God knows where, and when he is himself again remembers it like you or I would recall a dream.

"I had to remove him from the daily workings of the company because of it; I couldn't let the board members or employees catch on or there would be a panic. Practically ordered him to stay at home until this thing sorts itself out. He hasn't taken to the change well, though, and it's only made his condition worse. He disappears now for hours at a time, and I have no idea where until he returns to his apartment again in the evening, smiling at me as though everything is perfectly normal, no recollection of where he's been.

"I followed him one afternoon; he went to the Japanese Tea Garden in Golden Gate Park, drank some tea, sat on a bench up by the pagoda and watched the pond. I had to leave for a meeting. Later that night when I'd asked him where'd he'd gone, he said to the Tea Garden, that's all."

"And that's bad because..."

Pike looked at him pointedly. "From Nob Hill to the Park is no more than, what, eight to ten miles round trip? That day his car had gone over 40."

Okay, even Jim could admit that didn't add up.

"Where is he going every day, and why? I need to know, and can't do it myself. Will you help me, Jim?"

Jim looked at him, thought about it for a moment. Then sighing, with more reservations about it than he could name, he nodded.

Pike stood up, eyes bright with excitement, and Jim followed his lead. They shook on it, then Pike led him to the door, apologizing again for taking so much of his time and offering his most heartfelt thanks. He hurriedly wrote the address of Spock's apartment building on a slip of paper and handed it to Jim, who slipped it into his jacket pocket for safekeeping. Pike told him to come by Ernie's that night; he would be dining there with Spock before the two of them headed off to the opera together, and then Jim could see what Spock looked like before he began tailing him. Jim said he would be there and turned to leave.

At the end of the hallway Jim looked back for a moment to see Pike still standing in the doorway of his office. The light from the windows streamed out behind him and into the hall, casting a dark shadow over his face and body and masking his expression. Jim touched his fingertips to the brim of his hat and nodded at him, indicating one last goodbye, and turned the corner.

Only after Jim had left and was driving back to his apartment did he realize that not once in their entire conversation had Pike ever mentioned his father.

•

The first thing Jim noticed when he stepped into the upstairs room of Ernie's was the color red. It assaulted him on on all sides, in a hue normally reserved for the flanks of screaming fire engines and the lips of beckoning Tenderloin streetwalkers. If there was a psychological or aesthetic reason to brazenly mark every surface of the place in scarlet, it was beyond his comprehension, because all it made him want to do was quickly buy a drink to dull his senses. Ah, he thought, smiling, the reason becomes clear after all. Genius.

The second thing he noticed, once he stepped up to the equally red bar area and ordered said drink, was the man in green.

Despite his attempts to resist Bones' education on the subject of art, a few stubborn facts had managed to squeeze into his ivory dome and lodge there. So he knew about the power of complimentary colors, how red intensified the color green and brought it to life in a way no other shade was capable of.

In spite of knowing that the color of the room was manipulating his brain, he believed that the man in the emerald green scarf would have stood out anyway. That he was seated on the far side of the restaurant, framed by a doorway separating the two dining areas, quite a distance away, also made no difference. There was something about him that was incredibly arresting.

He was very tall and very distinguished, somewhat older than Jim, a blend of mixed ethnicities that he could not immediately decipher. Jim watched him talking, eating, gesturing to his dining companion...who just happened to be Pike. Which made the man in green the infamous, brilliant, half-Japanese half-white, possibly mentally unstable Spock.

Damn, for a man who should be pushing fifty he had certainly aged well; his face and hands were remarkably untouched by the ravages of time. Jim took the opportunity to study him and sip his drink at the same time. The way the light brushed his severely cut Roman-style hair—which in his younger days had probably been jet black, but was now several lovely shades of grey—and almost transluscent skin. The silhouette of his face in profile, how the skin at his eyes crinkled ever so slightly when he did what Jim decided must be his own minimalistic version of a smile. The elegant way he sat and gestured to Pike with his hands as he talked. There was just something to him, an eerie otherness that made all the other patrons fade into the background. Jim assumed that since Pike was relaxed and showing no alarm, that this must be a normal part of the man's persona.

Jim drained the rest of his glass and set it back on the bar while motioning for another one, not once tearing his eyes away from the table holding Pike and Spock. He took a sip of his refreshed drink, the burning feeling on the back of his throat making him wince slightly.

Eventually Pike and Spock finished their meal. He watched as the two men got up from their table, Spock the first one to move towards the exit. He suddenly filled the doorway of the two rooms with his tall frame, clothed in a perfectly cut black suit and the green silk scarf that had first caught Jim's attention. Up close, Jim could see that it was embroidered with some type of Asian patten and rich, heavy beadwork. Spock paused in the doorway and turned his head, waiting for Pike to catch up to him. God, that profile again.

And there was Pike, touching him, murmuring something in his ear. Spock smiled again, that small smile of his that was almost not a smile. As they walked together towards the exit, his gaze drifted over the restaurant and the bar, and for some reason Jim could not name he looked away, not wanting to meet the man's eyes if they happened to rest on him, though there was no feasable reason for them to do so. Jim got one final glance of the pair of them as they headed down the stairs together.

When he would recall this day later on, reliving it over and over, Jim would wonder what had ever possessed him to accept Pike's offer and go to the restaurant that night, sparking the chain of events that would sweep him into dark, unyielding currents from which he would emerge forever altered. Wonder if, in his more philosophical moments, he had known from the beginning how things would unfold—the pain, the sorrow, the regret—would he still have taken the first step onto that primrose path leading to his own personal hell, the likes of which he had never before believed could exist? Or would he prefer a life where he had never laid eyes on Spock?   The fact that he could never definitively say yes, please take it all away, well, it did little to persuade him that he had not actually gone mad after all.

::

Author's Notes:

• In Vertigo Elster helps run his wife's shipbuilding, not shipping, company, but it works better for my story this way so I took artistic license.

• The words power and freedom were repeated often in Vertigo, and I am doing the same as it fits my story's themes as well.

• "Do you believe that someone out of the past, someone dead, can enter and take possession of a living being?" Word for word from Vertigo.

• "And she wanders, God knows where she wanders" is another line I repurposed.

• I am so, so sorry for anyone who is mortally offended that I made Spock half Japanese. Obviously as this is set in 50's SF I couldn't make him half Vulcan. He was originally going to be part Spanish like in the movie, but that just wasn't working out. The idea of making him of Japanese descent, still "alien" in his own way to whiteys like Jim and Pike, fit much better, and it was amazing once I went down that road how well everything clicked into place—the history, the culture, the locations, the mythology. Besides, I think of all the earth races out there, Vulcans have many similarities to the Japanese, so it's not too much of a stretch. If it really bothers you, just take a deep breath and repeat the mantra "it's only an AU, it's only an AU..."

• The ikiryo (or ikiryoh) is a real concept in Japanese mythology. Ikiryo usually came from people who held grudges against the person they inhabited, or a sick or comatose person. I am fudging the mythology a bit but it comes from a kernel of truth.

• Back in the 50's in SF, despite the radical cultural transformations taking place then to help it become the gay mecca it is now, there was still witchhunting going on. So Pike's vagueness and concern is totally legit.

• The forty miles thing: because I am a research freak and because there is a plethora of info on the exact locations of where things in Vertigo were shot, I actually pinpointed the places Madeline/Spock commonly went to each day and determined just how far the distance traveled would be (Google Maps, you are my new BFF.) It ended up being 39.8 miles. You will see the places I pinpointed to determine that number in the next chapter!

• Ernie's is gone now, but back then it was a real restaurant, very swanky. It was used as a location in a couple of movies besides Vertigo, and looks as I am describing it, though I'm exaggerating slightly how brazen the red is (but not by much.)

• I had a friend growing up who was half Japanese, half Irish; she had the most beautiful features, and it was hard to tell what her ethnicity actually was unless you asked. So I picture my Spock looking the same way, but in boy form a la Nimoy. (I adore his nose, his everything, so yeah, just squint really hard and imagine he could be half Japanese. It's easy if you try!)

• The complimentary colors thing: I honestly entertained the idea of making the motif of reds and greens from Vertigo blue and yellow instead, to highlight the ST relationships. But I erred on the side of Vertigo, sorry.

• FYI I am fiddling with the ages of the characters a bit to better fit the story, sorry about that! Some you will see why, some not. (Poor Hitch and Roddenberry and Abrams, I am totally ruining everything.) In my story Jim was born in 1924 and Bones in 1918, if anyone cares. Which makes them 33 and 39, respectively. (A lot older than they are in the movie, gah!) Spock's age is revealed in a later chapter, so no telling for now!


	3. Chapter 3

Jim started stalking Spock the very next day.

Oh, he knew he could feel justified in calling it tailing if he wanted to, he mused, sitting in his Desoto across from the stone entranceway of the Brocklebank Apartments where Pike had said Spock lived. He was wearing his dark fedora and the suit that always made him feel a bit like Sam Spade, ignoring the morning paper in his hands and the half-drunk coffee cooling beside him. The sky was sunny for now, but expected to cloud over in the afternoon; all in all a perfect day for someone in his line of business.

Staking out and tailing a suspect had been a routine part of his everyday detective work, so if he was honest with himself doing this kind of thing was nothing new. He was good at it, as a matter of fact, just as he had been good with all the other things associated with catching criminals and proving their guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. He wore the mantle of a detective like a second skin, and damned if he didn't wear it well.

But it had always been in the line of duty before, tied to finding a murderer or uncovering a criminal mastermind organization or bringing a sick pervert to justice. Not the boring assignment of tailing a guy for the day whose mind might be a few cards short of a deck. His pride kept whispering to him that it was beneath him, that he was most likely sacrificing some part himself by doing it, and he found it awfully hard to disagree with that assessment.

Deep down, however, he knew it was more than that, more than just the menial detective work and his still smarting ego. For some reason Spock intrigued him, a puzzle he couldn't figure out. Which made getting paid to follow him around all day and watch him as he went about his daily activities much more of a thrilling prospect than it reasonably should have been.

He was disrupted from his moment of inner reflection as a tall, familiar man exited the building and crossed the small apartment courtyard towards a row of parked cars. Spock. He wore an impeccably tailored and expensive-looking light-grey suit and crisp white shirt, with a black scarf, hat, and shoes to complete the ensemble. He got into a pale green Jaguar—damn, the man might be crazy, but he had good taste—and drove out into the street. Jim pulled out into the flow of traffic and began following him.

The Jaguar drove west at a casual pace, making an occasional turn now and then. Jim tried to stay at least a car or so behind and remain inconspicuous—easy for him as his sedan was a rather nondescript grey color, easy to forget—and had a few moments where he lost Spock's car from view as it made a turn he wasn't anticipating. Nothing he couldn't handle. The streets of the city were busy as always, but lucky for him it was that golden time between the early morning rush hour and the bustling lunch crowds, so the flow of traffic was relatively manageable. Jim followed the Jaguar as it moved out of the posh Nob Hill and Pacific Heights areas and made its way into the heart of the humbler yet culturally vibrant Japantown. They coasted on Pine street for a while, past rows of residential townhouses, until the green car turned left onto Fillmore, at a busy intersection full of shops and eateries, where it made an immediate turn onto Willmot and disappeared from sight.

Jim quickly followed its lead and resumed his visual on the Jaguar as he turned onto the tiny street. The green car stopped about two-thirds of the way down the block, so Jim slowly eased his own car to a stop and waited. Spock got out of the car in a graceful motion and moved with no hesitation in the direction of Jim's vehicle, to a small door in the wall, quickly opening it and disappearing inside. Jim exited his car, draining the last of his disappointingly cold coffee before he did so, and approached the door Spock had entered. The sign above it had the words "Customer Entrance" in English, and he assumed the Japanese lettering below it said the same thing.

The door led to a dingy back room full of trash cans and cleaning products. Jim spied another door further in, headed to it and opened it a crack.

The cramped utilitarian space of the back room opened into a refreshingly lush interior, crammed in every direction with colorful Japanese merchandise. Jim spied the grey of Spock's suit off to the left, in a section of the store where vibrant flowers in what seemed like every possible color were on display, talking to a Japanese woman behind the counter. There seemed to be a familiarity to their speech and mannerisms, as if they'd had many conversations before. The woman smiled at him and held a bouquet of white flowers out towards Spock, which the man inspected and approved with a nod of his head. The two species used in the bouquet were unrecognizable to Jim, but that was no big surprise. The swiftness of the transaction implied that this was an expected, perhaps standing order, unless it was a common bouquet already lying around the shop, but Jim seriously doubted that.

As Spock pulled out his wallet, Jim quietly shut the door to avoid being noticed and swiftly backtracked the way he had come. He was back in his car, engine still off but otherwise ready to go, by the time Spock exited the shop with the flowers and reentered his Jaguar. Jim let a beat or two pass before he started his own vehicle and resumed his...tailing. Yeah, definitely going with tailing.

From that stop the Jaguar headed south and out of the city proper, getting on highway 101 and taking it past Daly City. Jim cranked up the radio as some hot jazz came on and enjoyed the drive. He followed the green car to the pillared gates of the Cypress Lawn Cemetery and watched it enter, following the curve of the road.

Jim inwardly groaned, but pulled his car into the cemetery's main drive anyway. In his experience, wide, unobstructed, carefully manicured grounds like those in cemeteries were usually not conducive to covert tailing operations; he was pretty sure Spock would notice the sedan following him in pretty short order if he wasn't careful. Jim slowed down considerably as he entered the place, letting Spock get a comfortable distance ahead, watching for flashes of light green as the Jaguar darted behind trees and tombs.

Lucky for Jim there seemed to be a large family memorial service of some sort that day; tons of cars were lining the cemetery roads along the route Spock had chosen to travel. Jim could see the Jaguar stopping a few cemetery blocks ahead, so he drove to the end of the rows of cars involved with the memorial and parked his sedan in front of them. He tried to make it look like he was connected with the group, yet allow himself an easy exit from the cemetery if such a thing became necessary. He quickly vacated his vehicle and walked towards the direction of Spock's car. As he spotted the man in grey among the rows of tombstones, he purposely chose a path that allowed him to be at Spock's back, and stayed close to whatever monuments or trees he could.

By the time he got close enough to see Spock relatively clearly, he saw that his careful attempts, while a part of excellent police work, were probably in vain. Spock had spent the time Jim had been stealthily moving towards him setting up something on the ground, clearly engrossed in his preparations. Still, Jim rationalized that it would have been stupid to do otherwise. He watched what Spock was doing with interest.

The man had spread a small dark blanket directly in front of one of the tombstones, and on it placed a small black bag, a flask, and the flowers from the shop. He picked up the flask and took a strangely shaped ladle from the bag, stepped towards the headstone, and poured a clear colored liquid—probably water?—from the flask and into the ladle, which he then poured on top of the headstone in one fluid motion.

That done, he returned the items to the side of blanket and began messing with the area directly around the tombstone, tidying it up, though to be honest there wasn't much for him to do as this was a pretty immaculate cemetery. He did, however, remove an old cluster of faded flowers from the headstone and replace them with the fresh bouquet he had bought that morning. Their whiteness stood out against the grey of the headstone and the green of the lawn.

From the looks of the faded flowers they were not very old, a day or two at the most, of the same species, color, and arrangement as the ones bought today. Did that mean that Spock came here often to replace them? Hard to tell at this point after only one day of tailing, but Jim made a mental note to tally up any repeated actions or events he observed.

Spock knelt Japanese style on the blanket so he was facing the tombstone, legs tucked beneath him. He retrieved more items from his black bag: a small wrapped parcel, some long sticks Jim knew were incense, some incense holders, and a matchbook.

He lit the incense, blew it out, placed it in the holders, and then leaned forward and placed it on the grave. He unwrapped the parcels, which looked to be holding tiny white cakes, and placed them on the tomb next to the incense. Then he sunk back into his original seated position and placed his palms and fingers flat together in front of him. As he bowed his head to the tombstone he lifted his hands, still pressed together, to his forehead and held them there. He remained in that position for quite some time. A light breeze was blowing, and would occasionally tease his suit jacket or the scarf around his neck, but the rest of him remained solid, unmoving.

Jim watched in fascination; never had he seen one person remain so still for so long. He himself was a fidgeting, moving dynamo of energy, his body upset when forced to remain still, so he knew he was not the best judge of this. But even normal people like Bones moved occasionally, crossed their legs a different way or stretched a crick in their back, finding little ways to relieve their body from the stiffness that came from resting in one position for too long. With this man, nothing. It was almost as if he was practicing to become a permanent feature among the tombstones, the cemetery's very own Spock-shaped monument.

After a time Spock finally shifted and raised his head again as if coming out of a trance. He bowed once more, quickly, then cleaned up the accoutrements of his mini memorial service and repacked them in the bag. The cake things and new flowers he left behind. He folded up the blanket carefully, collected his bag and the faded flowers, took one last look at the headstone, and walked back towards his car.

Jim waited until he was a fair distance away, then walked towards the headstone, trying to be discreet. He pretended to study some of the other markers around it, while at the same time not taking so long that Spock would have a chance to leave before he was finished. Finally he got to the headstone. The words chiseled into it, without any ostentation, read:

AMANDA GRAYSON  
1880 – 1930  
IO CON SICURA FEDE L'ASPETTO

Jim had no idea what the last line of the inscription meant or might be from; he was relatively sure it was Italian but was definitely no expert on the subject. But hey, a clue was a clue, so he wasn't about to knock it. He pulled out his pocket-sized notebook, a constant companion for all his cases, and wrote down the three lines of text. He looked over at Spock, who had just finished setting everything in his car and was getting inside. Dammit. Jim casually walked back to his Desoto so as not to be conspicuous, then moved faster as he got out of sight of the Jaguar, finally running over to his driver's side door and hopping in. He peeled out, annoying some of the people from the other memorial service, but didn't care. He flew along the curve of the long road as it headed towards the exit, hoping he hadn't lost Spock.

Jim smiled as he saw the green Jaguar ahead of him, still waiting its turn at the area where the cemetery road and the highway intersected. He slowed down and watched it make the turn back onto the highway in the direction they had come, and again let the green car lead the way back into the city. Well, that certainly accounted for some of the miles ratched up on the Jaguar's odometer; round trip to the cemetery alone was a good 25-30 miles. Jim switched his car radio to a different station, and bopped his head as the sounds of Thelonius Monk filled up the car.

Once they were back in the city, the Jaguar drove north via 19th Avenue into the Richmond near Lincoln Park, then turned into the entrance to the Legion of Honor. Jim followed and made his way up the winding, tree-choked drive, which after the crowded and bustling city streets they had just left was like a green breath of fresh air. The trees opened up suddenly into a wide, open space, the neoclassical white stone building that made up the Legion looming on the left.

It had been a long, long time since Jim had last visited the museum. Bones knew him well enough to realize his disinterest in all things classical, thus tried to spare him from hours upon hours of torture via ancient art. But in spite of that, his friend also realized the need to expose Jim to enough culture to keep him from completely embarrassing himself in public. As these two realizations had a tendency to conflict, Jim had been dragged to the Legion once or twice, Bones deaf to his protests, for an afternoon of canvas watching.

To be honest, Jim found the area immediately surrounding the Legion to be more striking than the museum itself. The lush, open greenery of the hilltop the museum rested on; the ocean cliffs of Land's End hugging it to the north; slivers of the blue ocean and the reddish-orange Golden Gate bridge peeking through the greenery; the skyline of downtown San Francisco visible in the distance beyond yet another line of trees. A man could feel free out here in this green floating oasis, far removed from everything; it was rather glorious location. Jim took one last look around, sighed with longing, and headed towards the museum once he saw that Spock had headed inside.

Jim passed the lions guarding the outer entrance and passed under the front archway into the pillared main courtyard. Despite what Bones had explained to him about neoclassical architecture, Jim always found the Legion to be a little creepy. It really felt, especially on a deserted overcast day like this with hardly any crowds, like the whole museum was a giant mausoleum for the dead, much like the giant monuments at the Cypress Lawn Cemetery. Which, considering it had been built as a tribute to the soldiers of the Great War, meant it kind of was, so he really wasn't so far off the mark. Jim walked by the statue of The Thinker in the center of the courtyard, forever facing out the front archway to the greenery beyond, contemplating God knows what, and headed to the interior entrance. On the way in he passed another plaque, this one reading "by the grace of God and in boundless love, for the youth of our land who died to make men free."

Jim thought about his father and Pike and the men they had known in that war who had died—whether they had purposely died with the intent to make men free, Jim couldn't really say. His mind briefly flashed, completely unbidden, to his own memories of war, to men, good men, he and Bones had known in their time in battle who had also perished. He quickly willed his brain to occupy itself with something else, anything else, to keep his mind from heading down those dark paths best left unexplored, especially while he was on assignment.

Okay, he decided, maybe the museum was less like a giant creepy tomb and more like a giant creepy war memorial. A memorial filled to the brim with statues of naked people. Yeah, that was it. Jim entered, paid the fee to get in—would Pike reimburse him for the cost of his ticket of torture, he wondered—and headed into the main atrium.

Jim steeled himself for some fancy tailing work, as purposely staggering his entrance behind Spock's meant that the man had been given more than enough time to vanish somewhere within its walls. He knew the rough layout of the museum from his previous visits, and knew that finding and trailing Spock could be potentially dodgy. The main section of the building was fine for following someone unnoticed, as the rooms made giant circular loops that led into one another and back to the center. But the two wings of the building that hugged the sides of the main courtyard, well those would be trickier. They were just two long series of chambered rooms with only one way in and one way out; if Spock was in there he'd have a hard time not being noticed at some point. Jim prepared himself for the worst.

It turned out he needn't have bothered with his scheming at all. As he stood in the center of the main front atrium and turned, deciding which branch of rooms to visit first, he caught sight of Spock's grey form in the rectangular main gallery off to his left. He walked over to its pillared entrance, hiding from view behind its dark marble columns, and watched Spock.

The man was sitting on a bench directly in front of a largeish painting on the far left of the room, eyes glued to it, doing that same silent frozen motionless thing he had done in the cemetery. How could one person stay so still for so long? It was truly baffling. He suspected Spock might not actually be human, but an insane statue come to life to torment him. He was pretty sure there was some famous myth about such a thing, but he'd be damned if he could remember it just now.

Jim cautiously entered the gallery, pretending to look at some ridiculously boring paintings on the right side of the room, one of a man in a large wig thing and lacy jacket and _tights_—God, Jim was so glad he had not been born in an era that forced him to wear such things, he'd have punched himself in the face every day as punishment for the ridiculousness—and some random ones of a dog and a plate of fruit. Boring, boring, boring.

The last time they had come here, Jim had told Bones of his own personal art theory: long ago, the heads of every major art museum had gotten together in a secret conference and decided to play a giant prank on the unwitting public. Their trick? To have identical copies of certain paintings made and placed in every museum. The curators just pretended they were all different, and none of the visitors noticed because really, who looks that closely at a painting of a bowl of fruit? And once a year the museum heads that were in on the joke got together and laughed at the unsuspecting visitors behind the doors of their offices.

Needless to say Bones had not been amused by his theory, instead giving him the glare to end all glares. But really, was there a feasible need for _that_ many original paintings of fruit bowls in the world, if they weren't all attached to some giant conspiratorial wink? It just seemed like a waste of perfectly good oil and canvas otherwise.

Somehow Jim managed to keep his face serious as he recalled that day with Bones, so that it looked to the average museum goer like he was truly contemplating the pieces in the gallery instead of admittedly farfetched art theories. He kept himself behind Spock's back as he wandered down the length of the room, but again wondered if it was even worth the bother, as Spock was too engrossed in his painting to notice anything else around him. Once Jim had gotten near the end of the room, directly behind Spock, he was finally able to get a good look at the painting that was so thoroughly arresting the man's attention.

It was a decent sized portrait, Jim guessed roughly 4 feet by 5 feet, of a petite Caucasian woman with glossy dark hair and delicate features. She was dressed in a kimono and seated on a couch, a Asian-style fan in her hands, with a giant bowl of flowers resting on a small side table behind her.

Flowers that happened to be the exact same color and species as the ones that Spock had purchased to decorate the grave of Amanda Grayson.

Jim studied the woman a bit closer while maintaining as much distance as he could. In spite of the delicacy of her features and in the treatment of the objects around her, there was a spark to her eyes and a tilt to her figure that belied her gentle appearance. She didn't have the same level of intimidation as, say, Jim's own mother, but Jim had been around enough strong women in his life to recognize a woman possessed with that same spirit. He wondered just how closely the intelligence and determination of the woman in this painting had matched the actual flesh-and-blood model in life.

At the end of the gallery where Jim and Spock were, there were two facing doorways. Knowing he was starting to linger too long and it would soon look suspicious, Jim ducked into the one closest to him and pretended to be studying the paintings and sculptures in that room, all the while keeping Spock in his line of vision. Jim tried not to die of boredom as he did so.

Eventually Spock got up, to Jim's relief—showing no signs of stiffness despite having sat so still for so long, the crazy bastard—and exited the gallery into the main atrium. Jim hurried over to the painting's infomation tag, jotting down what it said about the painting (Portrait of Amanda, by William Merritt Chase, painted 1908, oil on canvas), and headed back out.

Apparently the painting of Amanda was the only thing that Spock had come to see, as he was already out the door. Jim headed out the front of the museum, tipped his hat to Mr. Thinker as he exited the front courtyard, got back into his sedan and let the Jaguar lead the way back down the drive of the Legion and emerge once more into the hustling fray of the concrete city. It was amazing, really, the difference one twisting road and a few trees made to the mood of a place.

Jim followed the green car down the Great Highway, a winding road that hugged the rocky cliffs to the west of the peninsula making up San Francisco, past the Seal Rocks. Soon they were out of the curvy part of the road and headed south, parallel to Ocean Beach, which looked pretty deserted. No surprise there, as it was turning into a grey, cool cloudy October day. The Jaguar suddenly turned and parked in front of the sands of the beach. Jim sped on past it, saw Spock open his door, and continued down a ways, parking a sort distance a good fifty yards or so down from where Spock was.

Jim looked over to see what Spock was doing and almost burst out laughing. Spock, prim straitlaced stonefaced Spock, was taking off his socks and shoes. And rolling up the legs of his carefully pressed pants to the knee, exposing long, lithe calves and ankles. Jim could hardly believe it; was the man really going to go strolling along the seashore? Apparently the answer was yes; Spock walked out onto the sand, maintaining a graceful pace despite the unevenness of the shifting surface. He continued straight out towards the ocean until he reached the shore, stopping where the water lapped the sand.

It made for a bizarre picture, the wind whipping Spock's jacket and scarf and greying hair, his arms at his sides, rolled up pants and bare legs and feet sinking down into wet sand, staring out at the far horizon. Once again it was like he was doing his best to imitate an inanimate object; at this moment it was the hulking Seal Rocks that rested far off to his right. For some inexplicable reason the image of him, this immovable man in grey, struck a chord with Jim. With the gloomy sky dulling the color of the water, Spock, with his hair and suit, seemed to get lost amid the scenery, so much a part of it that it seemed that at any moment he would dissolve into it and vanish, no piece of him remaining.

Eventually, as if on cue from some silent internal signal, Spock roused from his stillness and headed back across the sands towards the Jaguar. He took out a small towel from his car and carefully cleaned the sand from his lower legs and feet, until Jim was sure that every trace of it must surely be gone. Having a towel at the ready might imply that coming to the beach was also a frequent event. Spock slipped his shoes and socks back on, tied his laces, closed the car door and pulled out of the parking lot, resuming his drive south.

Jim pulled his Desoto back onto the road and followed the Jaguar, who at the next available corner turned left. They meandered up Sunset Boulevard until it ran smack into Golden Gate Park, and entered it via the south drive. Once inside the Park they drove north and east past Stow Lake; Jim had a suspicion of where they were headed but diligently followed. Eventually the Jaguar pulled into a parking spot on the side of the road and Spock made his exit from the car, heading in the direction of the Japanese Tea Garden; Jim smirked, satisfied at finding his hunch to be correct. He parked as well, got out of his sedan and trailed along behind.

Jim had never really studied much about Japanese history or culture except when it pertained to a case—and the little he had learned had mostly concerned the Japanese crime syndicates in the city, admittedly not the best source—so the hidden meaning and symbolism of the garden's design was completely lost on him. But in spite of that, he took a moment once inside the main entrance gate to pause and admire the greenness, the feeling of calm that the spirit of the place brought to him despite the crowds buzzing around with kids and cameras. He saw Spock out of the corner of his eye disappear around a corner on the left, past a large hut thing with a small pond in front of it, and started strolling in that direction.

Jim had always loved the outdoors; the wildness, the freedom, the pureness of raw nature. So in general he hated Western style gardens, where they pruned and hacked and tamed everything interesting about a plant into depressing little rows and shapes. But here...there was some of that here too, in the clipped hedges and neatly trimmed grass, but there was hardly a straight path to be seen, and massive amounts of plants seemingly left to their own devices. Jim liked it, deciding that the Japanese certainly knew how to do a garden right; it seemed a crying shame that this was his first time here.

Jim passed by a giant wooden bridge that looked almost impossible to climb, kept going left, and smiled as the path opened to a giant pond—or was it a small lake? Jim had no idea. Spock was ahead of him on the left, strolling along its outer edge. Jim walked slowly along the curve and kept out of sight as much as possible. There were plenty of trees and plants hugging the banks that he could duck behind, so the task was not too difficult; in his dark suit and hat he doubted he would stand out, but it didn't hurt to be cautious. As he reached the opposite side of the lake, he could see the tops of two Asian-looking large red buildings peering out above the treeline, their reflections mirrored in the water.

Instead of completing the circle around the lake, Spock took a path of steps that made a shallow incline up to a higher plateau of ground that overlooked the lake, where rested the smaller of the two red buildings. Jim let him get far enough up the the steps and then followed. As he walked up he looked back to admire the lake from this vantage point; when the path curved he turned his head back and suddenly froze, cursing under his breath.

Because up ahead he could see that Spock had paused under the red building—not a building at all but some sort of portal—looking forward towards something Jim could not see. There was hardly any space separating them; If he turned and looked back Jim would be clearly visible. He backed up as slowly and quietly as he could while keeping his eyes on Spock, much in the same way hunters backed away from an animal they were afraid would suddenly notice them and leap to attack.

It was the closest Jim had been to Spock since yesterday evening at Ernie's; he felt like a bit of a cad but took the opportunity to study his long, lean figure, the impeccable cut of his grey suit, the varying shades of his hair beneath the black hat. He was doing that still thing he did so well, ignoring the people passing by and acting like he was simply another piece of the garden. Then at last he moved again, continuing onwards and to the left, not looking back once. Jim let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and slowly continued walking forward until he too was standing under the carved wooden portal, eyes widening as he stared at the immensely tall building before him.

It was a wooden pagoda, the other building he had seen from the lake, incredibly tall with five roofs stacked one on top of the other, painted in an almost garish shade of red that made it stand out against the green trees despite the dimming evening light. Jim smiled at the simple picket fence around it, probably made to keep people from trying to climb it or something and break their neck; it just seemed so ordinary compared to the exoticness of the structure it surrounded.

Jim took one last look and headed left into a bunch of tree-shaded paths, Spock's grey form disappearing and reappearing among the foliage. He passed a large pebble-filled garden in a clearing that he was sure was beautiful but whose beauty didn't really speak to him. As they came to better lit part of the garden with more statue things, Jim saw yet another set of buildings up ahead. How big could one damned garden be? He felt a bit lost, which unsettled him; the twists and turns of the garden were disorienting. He was sure Spock knew perfectly well where they were going and he trusted the man to get them back out before the day was over, but still.

Apparently they had circled back around near the front of the garden, because Jim suddenly spied the hut thing he had seen near the entrance was straight ahead; just seeing it and having a better idea of where he was helped relax him a bit. Inside of the hut was a small cafe where he could see people sipping tea and nibbling on various things. Spock was in there, talking to the person behind the counter in a very friendly way, then sitting down at a small table that faced out to the pond and the entryway where they had come in.

Jim kept out of Spock's line of vision and circled around behind him, studying the other building in the area, which turned out to be a gift shop. He looked back over to see Spock sipping some tea. Jim's stomach suddenly rumbled; he had packed some food to snack on during the day, but it was definitely time for a real meal. To distract him while Spock had his drink, he headed over to the gift shop, which also had a wooden portal near it, and peered through it to find a path leading to yet another garden. He entered and looked down at the water and plants below, circled around the back of the gift shop, stared at the building once more, then headed back to check on Spock.

Who had vanished from the tea hut.

_Damn it all to hell!_ Cursing his idiocy in not keeping his eyes glued on the man, Jim quickly scanned the areas around the hut but saw no sign of a tall familiar person clad in grey. He dashed around to the entrance to see if he had left; nothing. He quickly headed back to the tea hut, saw the man who had been conversing with Spock and went up to him. He was wiping down the counter; only a few lone patrons remained, polishing off the last of their snacks before they were kicked out, as the garden looked to be closing soon for the evening.

"Excuse me, but I need some help."

The man was around Jim's age and height, Asian, dark hair, slight build, open features. He looked up as Jim spoke, curiosity on his face. "What can I do for you?"

"You know a man named Spock, correct?"

The man looked surprised by the comment. "I do."

"Do you know where he went? I saw him in here just now but he vanished before I had a chance to talk with him." He was completely lying about the talking part, of course, but he couldn't exactly tell the man he was...tailing Spock, now could he?

The man just looked confused now. "I haven't seen Spock all day."

Now it was Jim's turn to look confused. "But you were just talking to him."

"Sorry, but as far as I know he hasn't been here today."

"But that's impossible!" Jim did not understand why this man was being so evasive. "Tall, greying hair, around fifty or so?"

"That's him, but you're mistaken, sorry."

"The hell I'm not, he was having tea _right here_ not five minutes ago." Jim was starting to get plain annoyed and knew his face and tone of voice showed it. Part of it was that he hadn't eaten a real meal in hours and his blood sugar was getting low—thanks, Bones, for inserting that lovely fact into his subconscious—and part of it was that he hating feeling like he was being dicked around. Why was this man so obviously lying? Was he covering up for Spock for some reason? It's not like Spock was some random ghost flitting around, visible only to Jim. The man had seen him, had spoken to him. What was going on?

"Look, you must have just confused him with someone else," said the man soothingly, obviously ruffled by Jim's annoyance and trying to avoid a confrontation. "Another Japanese person visiting the garden with similar features. It happens here all the time, don't worry about it," he said in that polite tone that people used when they were trying to be reassuring but obviously didn't believe a word they were saying.

Jim couldn't help but stare at him, in disbelief at the turn the conversation had taken. Oh, God_dammit_, the guy believed that Jim was some sort of idiot racist who thought all Japanese people looked alike, and was coddling him, the bastard. Jim felt insulted and humiliated and embarrassed on so many different levels that it wasn't funny. Not just because he wasn't like that—he might be a jerk, but he wasn't a _racist_ jerk—but especially because it also felt like a referendum on his detective abilities as well. Not that the guy had any idea, but recognizing miniscule differences in a person's face and mannerisms had been a key part of his job—yet another thing he had been damn good at—so the idea that _Jim_ of all people believed all Japanese looked alike? Don't make him laugh.

But it was getting late, and Spock was probably long gone by now but might still be around, so causing a scene that might just dig a deeper hole for himself was not on his agenda for the evening. He bit the bullet, sighed, and backed off.

"Never mind. Thanks."

"No problem." The man smiled at him, obviously relieved. "Have a good evening." That _tone_ was still there, though, he realized as he left to exit the garden, and it nagged at him all the way back to his car.

On a whim he drove past the Brocklebank Apartments on his way to dinner; sure enough, the green Jaguar was snugly parked next to the other high-priced vehicles in the building's courtyard. He sighed, stared one last time at the car, and let the rumbling of his stomach direct his own humble sedan to Fisherman's Wharf. One of his favorite Italian restaurants, a tiny hole-in-the-wall with fantastic food and service, was there, and their made-from-scratch lasagna—not quite his mom's recipe but definitely amazing—was calling to him. As he dug into a basket of garlic bread, fresh and buttery from the oven, he reviewed his mental notes from the day and jotted down into his little notebook a few questions that needed to be answered. It wasn't starting out as the most gripping case he'd ever worked on, but there was definitely a mystery connected with Spock, and it was one he was determined to get to the bottom of.

•

Jim spent the rest of his week tailing the man, each day studying him and trying to solve more and more questions. Spock made little alteration to his route; the path they had taken on Jim's first day out was pretty much the one they repeated for the rest of the week. Spock spent about the same amount of time at each place as he had that first day and did things in pretty much the same order. Flower shop, gravesite, the Legion, Ocean Beach, and the Tea Garden; these events repeated each day, every day. He saw during that week no attempts by Spock to harm himself; just the curious staring and stillness of motion, and Jim still couldn't determine if it was part of his actual personality or solely connected to his...condition.

Jim knew the pattern should have grown boring and monotonous by the end of the week, but for reasons he couldn't explain he found watching Spock oddly enjoyable. He didn't allow himself to dwell too much on that; the ramifications of it were not something he was quite ready to pursue.

Because he could anticipate Spock's movements, he could also occasionally break away and pursue other leads at the various locations where Spock played statue. He asked the florist lady about the flowers in the arrangement, on the pretense that he liked them and wanted a bouquet of his own; the lady told him that they were a mix of white peonies and chrysanthemums. He inquired to a knowledgeable groundskeeper at Cypress Lawn about Amanda Grayson's tombstone, but found out very little; just that some man back in 1930 had paid for the plot and headstone and that if his memory was correct she had died pretty tragically.

He returned to his favorite Italian restaurant—a hardship to be sure, he joked to himself as he devoured a cannoli, but one he would somehow survive—and found out from the owner that the words inscribed on the headstone were indeed Italian; they were from Puccini's opera _Madama Butterfly_ and meant "with unalterable faith I shall wait for him." Jim had no clue what that meant. If the "I" in the inscription was supposed to be Amanda, who was the man she was waiting for, and why choose those particular lines to carve into her tombstone? He wrote down the translation anyway, to decipher at a later date.

He picked up a catalog at the Legion containing a picture of the "Portrait of Amanda" and talked to a member of the museum staff about it; the man didn't know much about Amanda herself, but provided him with some information on the painter, the design elements he had used in the painting, and his impressionistic style; horrifically boring but Jim listened attentively anyway.

Despite his disastrous first impression, he somehow managed to strike up an easy friendship of sorts with the Japanese man from the Tea Garden who had been working in the hut—or tea pavilion, as he soon learned it was called—the one whom he had accidentally insulted. He learned that the man's name was Hikaru Sulu and that he helped care for the plants in the garden in addition to his tea shop duties. Once the guy realized Kirk was not really that big of an asshole—not intentionally, anyway—he turned out to be a genuinely nice guy and was more than willing to chat with him.

Sulu explained to Jim that he was related to the Hagiwaras, who had been the original caretakers of the gardens for generations. They had even lived in the garden until Pearl Harbor struck and the war began; after that they had been kicked out and soon after sent to an internment camp. Jim saw Sulu's jaw clench when he told him that, understood completely what that look meant, and left the subject well enough alone.

On a hunch, he handed Sulu the catalog with Amanda's painting in it to see if someone in his family might recognize her. Sulu returned the photo the next day, a smile on his face. His grandfather did indeed remember her; the man had stayed pretty closemouthed, but had told his grandson that she had visited the garden a handful of times around the turn of the century, usually with Sareku Miyajima and their child.

Miyajima, like the name of the company now owned by Spock and Pike?

_Their child?_

Jim got the impression from Sulu that his grandfather knew more than he was letting on, but out of politeness or courtesy or cultural norms—or maybe some deep juicy secret, perhaps?—had refused to tell Sulu any more. Intriguing. The mysteries in this case were beginning to pile up, which was a frustrating yet intellectually pleasant surprise.

Driving home that night Jim did the math; going by the years she was alive and comparing them to Spock's age, there was a good chance that Spock could be Amanda and Sareku's child. He didn't believe that this ikiryo thing could be real, but...if it was, then one of them could be the most likely candidate for the the spirit that was haunting Spock. Jim had his bet on Amanda; of course, that was if you believed in such things. In any case, Spock's connection to her, especially if as Jim suspected her life had ended pretty sadly, would make perfect sense, whether it came from a mental condition or a ghost out of the past.

The puzzle that was Spock was growing deeper; he didn't know just how far those depths would plunge, but he'd be damned if he wasn't going to try his best to figure it out. For many reasons, a few of which he didn't allow himself to think about too deeply.

But how to find out the truth concerning this growing pile of mysteries? That was his immediate problem. His knowledge of history, especially of the city and its people, was on a limited, strictly need-to-know basis; that was how Jim liked it, but at times like this it put him at a severe disadvantage.

Jim smiled broadly as he drove through the dark streets and hills of the city. No problem, no problem at all; all he needed to do was talk to a certain grump of a friend tomorrow, and he was sure the mysteries would begin working themselves out.

::

Author's Notes:

• Guh, it's hard enough to do research on a city you've only played tourista in twice, to describe it as it was fifty years ago and with the touches the Vertigo screenwriters threw in? Horrors, horrors. There is sooooo much driving around in the movie too, so I am trying to be as accurate as I can with those scenes, and guesstimate the rest. So please, correct me where I've gone astray, but be gentle, as the driving scenes were slightly painful to write. I love doing research but this was a beast of a chapter to figure out. Google Maps and my SF guidebooks, I am forever in your debt.

• Brocklebank Apartments are real and were used in Vertigo as Madeline's apartment.

• This will come up later, but my Jim is a big, flaming Sam Spade/Humphrey Bogart fan. So yeah, would totally have an outfit making him feel like his idol.

• The green Jaguar is ripped directly from the movie, and it fits Spock so well I saw no reason to change it. Same with Jim's Desoto.

• Pine Street really does run through Japantown, so in my girlish glee I decided to use it as a street they drive on. Hopefully you find it as funny as I did. There is no Quinto or Urban Street in SF, sorry!

• The flower shop is completely made up; I wanted a shop in Japantown instead of the Podesta Baldocchi used in Vertigo, and needed one near Pine Street to make my stupid shoutout to Chris work. I scoped out possible locations via Google Maps and thought the corner of Fillmore and Willmont looked the most promising, very similar to the alley in Vertigo. Forgive my brazenness. Apparently the alleyway Madeline used was in reality like two blocks from the actual flower shop, so do I feel bad for making the shop up? No.

• I learned in my research that highway 101 did indeed at that point cover the section of highway that is route 82 and the El Camino Real, where the Cypress Lawn cemetery is. It was moved later. So please no one freak out at me about 101 not running there; it did in the 50's. I am sure there is plenty more I have gotten wrong though concerning the roads, so feel free to poke through all of my holes and straighten me out; I am more than happy to make changes.

• The location of the cemetery and its description is something I had to take artistic license with. I am basing it off of the cemetery scene later on in Vertigo, not the Mission Delores scene, since in my version Spock is neither Spanish nor Catholic. The script says it's a cemetary south of SF, but I couldn't figure out which one, and that scene might not have even been shot in CA anyway. Gah. There happens to be a gorgeous cemetary south of SF that I found in my research, Cypress Lawn, and decided it would work the best, has that "portals of the past" feel I am aiming for and is indeed a place were SF's are buried. I've obviously never been to it, so other than some online pics I found and Google Maps I am totally making up what it looks like.

• Gah, the Japanese grave ritual scene. I tried to make it as authentic as possible but always get nervous in writing about things of which I know almost nothing. So if I got the shinto/buddhist cemetary rituals wrong, please fill me in and I'll fix that section.

• Jim's feelings about art/museums/history are so fun to write, they differ so much from my own. It's fun playing devil's advocate. I do, however, totally agree with Jim concerning the grounds of the Legion of Honor; the views are truly amazing and it really does feel like the rest of the city is a million miles away.

• Movie/research geek confession: the first week of October I took a trip to SF to visit a friend; while she worked during the day I went sightseeing. And since I was outlining and beginning the early chapters of this story at the time, I actually planned my trip around places I had never been before that were highlighted in Vertigo, seriously. Yeah, I am so weird. So the Legion was near the top of that list, and I am so, so glad I went there. It truly is an amazing museum and a fun place to wander. Never will you see so many Rodins clustered together. Yay for Hitch/the screenwriter/the location scouts for choosing it to be in the movie!

• The bus I took to get to and from the Legion of Honor drove past Ocean Beach and rounded the winding road that follows the coastline. It had been a rough morning, so upon seeing the beach, deserted in early October, all I wanted to do was take a soothing walk along the shoreline where the water and sand merged, sink my toes in, and stare out at the horizon. I didn't of course—doing so would have completely messed up my plans for the day—but I desperately wanted to. The beach scene and the idea that Spock would do this was somewhat inspired by the experience though, so at least there's that. (Yay for living vicariosly through my characters, hah.) Plus the movie takes place in September/October, from what I cold figure out, so good timing me!

• And yeah, I visited the Tea Garden too and loved it; it also would have been on the top of my list of things to see on my trip, story or not. For a map and photos of the Japanese Tea Garden, so you can see what the crap it is I'm trying to describe, go here: .

• According to my research, there was no famous Ghirardelli Plaza at that time—it was still the site of the original chocolate factory—but Fisherman's Wharf was starting to get an influx of tiny restaurants and was drawing new crowds of people. Jim's restaurant, totally fictitious, is one of those.

• When I say the Hagiwaras lived in the garden, is trufax; they had a Japanese style house there, with something like seventeen rooms, in the location where the sunken garden is today. But after the war started the new people in charge of the garden demolished it, along with several other buildings on the property. Such a shame.


	4. Chapter 4

The next afternoon found Jim strolling into Bones' apartment and collapsing on the couch like he owned the place, a man on a mission.

"Who do you know that's an expert on San Francisco history?" He looked over at his friend sketching by the sunny windows, half a glass of what looked to be a gin and tonic on the sill. Strains of Mozart drifted from the record player, and it made Jim feel itchy; he had never been one for classical music. He jumped back up and rifled through the records, finally settling on some Miles Davis. Ah, _much_ better. After putting Miles on he reclaimed his seat on the couch and looked over at Bones expectantly.

"Hello to you too. Though honestly, what's the use of an outdated greeting like 'hello' or 'how are you' when I can just follow your lead and start all my conversations with direct questions?" Bones had stopped sketching when Jim entered the apartment, and was now giving him a look that could only be described as severe. "I'm also glad that you no longer find it necessary to _ask_ before messing with my records; certainly makes a man feel respected in his own damn apartment."

Huh, Bones was in an interesting mood today. He decided to put his once-sharp detective skills to the test. The gruff sarcasm laced with real animosity could be the symptom of a bad day, Jim supposed, or the final straw in a long overdue, passive aggressive battle with Jim's admittedly bad habits; but he'd had always had those, so a blowup over them just now was bizarre. Maybe it had something to do with Jim not phoning or stopping by for a week? Actually, that one made a lot of sense. He decided to test his theory and flashed Bones a charming grin.

"Why not take it as a compliment instead of an insult; our relationship is so amazingly epic that the mundane tasks of regular, boring friendships are unnecessary. Therefore 'hello, Bones' is always, _always_ implied when I enter your apartment. As is 'I'm sorry' when I royally screw up and don't see you for a week, by the way, just for future reference." Bones rolled his eyes but his shoulders relaxed a bit; yup, that had been the problem all right. "Me even needing to spell this all out for you is what's really insulting; I'm pretty sure you should be apologizing to _me_. Now stop pretending to be mortally offended by my supposed rudeness and answer the question."

Bones went back to his sketching and waved a hand dismissively in Jim's direction. "Familiarity doesn't excuse laziness. We're not some old married couple, after all."

Jim's grinned. "Oh I don't know, Bones; with everything we've been through I'm pretty sure we're nearly there. Plus we _were_ together once, and by that I mean _together_ together."

"I haven't forgotten, Jim." McCoy's eyes flicked furtively to his direction and back again to his sketchbook with an expression Jim wasn't sure he could decipher. "And by the way, if you were going for nuance just then, it needs work; your meaning was about as subtle as a sledgehammer."

Bones seemed uncomfortable; intriguing. "Yup, three interesting months, right after you moved to the city. But you broke it off, old man, not me."

"Because you're a damned idiot. Why I still keep you around even now I don't know."

The affection hidden behind his gruff-sounding tone made the answer obvious, but Jim played it flippant. "Because I am sex on a stick, and you need the eye candy for inspiration. Don't worry, though; one day we will reach the point in our relationship where our minds truly do meld into one. You will instinctively know that I'll be coming over unannounced and will set your record player accordingly; I will walk in and instantly know what just what you are thinking; thus we will have officially become an old married couple. And on that day I promise to renounce my wicked, wicked ways and make an honest woman out of you."

Bones rolled his eyes. "I won't hold my breath. And what on earth makes me the damned woman in this scenario?"

"Easy; you're the one constantly listening to that classical Mozart junk and waxing poetic on Pollock and Warhol and other forms of bizarre art that I don't get."

"You _could_ get it, if you weren't so lazy in learning about subjects you don't find interesting. And the fact that you even know their names negates that statement."

"Not when you're the only reason I know who they are in the first place."

Bones sighed and leaned forward, shutting his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. "What did you come over here for, Jim, other than to destroy my peaceful afternoon? I distinctly remember you spouting some fool question or other when you came in."

Jim smiled, pleased; Bones changing the topic meant that he had forfeited the argument for now. Brilliant. Wheedling had its benefits, despite what anyone said. "Maybe I just came by to annoy you."

"Even you're not dumb enough to do that when you know I'm working. Something about history, was it?"

Jim gave in and got down to business. "Yeah. I need an expert on the history of the city, and since you seem to know everyone in town and amazingly are on speaking terms with them all, I figured you'd be person most likely to help me out. Besides the fact that we're close friends and all."

"So nice to be needed. One day soon, Jim, you will learn that keeping your bridges unburned is not that difficult of a feat; you just need a few social graces, some tact, and a bit of interest in what other people are saying despite the topic _not_ being about you."

"Which means it's pretty much hopeless, then."

Bones looked at him with an exasperated fondness. "Yeah, pretty much. How you became a detective so quickly and with such impeccable social skills is beyond me."

Jim grinned. "You and half of the force; I wouldn't sweat it if I were you."

"Oh trust me, I'm not. Now what kind of history are we talking about?"

"The dark, juicy stuff, I hope. It would be the kind of thing that occurred about half a century ago and is hard to look up; the small forgotten history of small forgotten people and all that."

"The gay old bohemian days of San Francisco, you mean? Minutae like who shot who in the Emarcadero on August 1879?"

"Exactly."

"You'll want Uhura then."

"Jim Blinked. Uh-what-a? I never really learned fluent Spanish, Bones."

Bones rolled his eyes. _"Nyota_ Uhura. Works in the Argonaut bookshop as a clerk. Has a memory a mile long and sings jazz in the evenings sometimes; is always worth a listen either way. The Argonaut has that amazing collection of old medical books I was telling you about."

Jim vaguely remembered something about Bones finding a store with great reference drawings for when he did his medical illustrations; like Jim was supposed to remember everything Bones told him, though. And he honestly couldn't remember a jazz singer by the name of Uhura; maybe they were new in town? "Do you know this Uhura guy well?"

McCoy gave him one of his looks, which clearly said that Jim was missing something vitally important and McCoy would be damned if he was going to spell it out for him. "I'd say so—and no, not in that way, Jim, just as friends. Why?"

"Can you introduce me?"

"To Uhura?"

"Yes."

"Something you need to find out about the gay old bohemian days of San Francisco?"

Jim chose flippancy again. "Maybe I have a burning interest in finding out who shot who in the Emarcadero on August 1879."

Bones rolled his eyes. "Please. Your detective days are over and you've never cared a lick about history except when it helped you solve a case. Why the sudden interest, really?"

"No reason. Nothing at all. Are you going to introduce me or not?"

"If you want." McCoy's eyes widened as Jim got up and pulled back on the coat and hat he had taken off moments before. "Wait, you mean _now_?"

"No time like the present, Bones. And don't worry, partly because you are liquored up, and partly because I am amazing, _I'll_ do the driving."

"Yes, because saying that makes me _less_ worried for my safety." But Bones sighed and finished his drink, made a quick call to the shop, grabbed a coat, and followed Jim out the door.

•

"Bones, you didn't tell me Uhura was a she."

"Oh really? Didn't think it mattered."

"Or damn attractive."

"Not exactly my type; must have slipped my mind."

"Or that I've hit on her before."

"Must have slipped my mind that it slipped your mind."

"And it ended up in a bar brawl at that stupid poetry and jazz night at The Cellar, where she let me get spectacularly pummeled by five guys _and_ thrown out on my ass."

"You're not exactly her type. Plus that night you groped her chest AND your fool antics interrupted Meltzer in the middle of a poetry reading; can't say that I blame her, really."

"Both of those were an accident and you know it!" he hissed quietly, trying not to draw Uhura's attention over to him just yet. Damn Bones and his alcohol-indiced mirth; he was enjoying this moment _far_ more than the bonds of decent friendship allowed. "Besides, she never told me her first name; I'm pretty sure the name Nyota would have struck a chord if I'd heard it before."

"As opposed to the name Uhura, I suppose, which is so popular nowadays it's going out of style?"

"Shut up," he muttered, as Bones grinned wickedly. "You purposely kept me in the dark about who she was and you know it."

"Think of it as sweet justice for keeping _me_ in the dark. I don't see you in over a week, and then you just barge in asking bizarre questions? You would have done the same." Okay, that was probably true; Jim gave him that. "Besides, if you had known going in who she was, I never would have been able to drag you to the Argonaut."

"Not true," Jim protested, knowing it probably was.

Uhura was at present engrossed with another customer, thus managed to give them only the briefest of polite glances when they entered the shop, more to acknowledge their presence than to see who they actually were. She was assisting a portly, jowly man with a dignified air and a well tailored black suit, holding, of all things, an instrument case. Jim was not sure what kind of rare documents such a man would need, but apparently they were very important ones that merited an intensely concentrated discussion with an impressively dedicated Uhura. That was the only reason, Jim was sure, that he was not currently on the receiving end of a glare of fiery death like the one he had received from her in The Cellar. With Uhura's attention occupied elsewhere, he took the time to study her properly, free from the haze of alcohol he had been under the night he had first seen her in the club.

She was indeed a beautiful woman, with unblemished mocha skin, gorgeous features, and glossy black hair pulled back into an almost severe looking ponytail. Her attire was neat and stylish, as suited a clerk in a bookshop, with a no-nonsense red pencil skirt and sweater set. She looked like a bright, vibrant tropical bird that had gotten itself accidentally trapped amid the rows and rows of wood paneling and dusty old books. Jim wondered what the appeal was, for a young attractive black woman who occasionally sang in jazz clubs to work in a stuffy, old fashioned bookshop like the Argonaut. Surely she'd be happier working at, say, City Lights, with Beat poets stopping in every five minutes and raucus parties in the basement? Though appearances could be deceiving; maybe she actually _enjoyed_ working here. History wasn't Jim's thing, but he appreciated that it might be for someone else, even if that someone looked better suited for a Vanity Fair cover shoot than shelving books. He knew he should stop the wheels of curiosity churning in his brain—it tended to get him into trouble, and as he was probably already on the ropes with Uhura prying into her affairs would be risky at best, disastrous at worst—but he was intrigued enough to at least do a little mental investigative work. If she didn't kill him first, of course, once she recognized who he was.

At last her customer thanked her for her help and left, taking his instrument case with him. She turned her attention to them, her gaze falling on Bones first, and her face lit up with welcome recognition. "Leonard, so good to see you! I was so happy to get your call; it's been a while since you last stopped by."

He smiled back and tipped his hat at her. "Always a pleasure, Nyota."

"I'm so sorry about not greeting you properly when you came in, I—" Then her gaze rested on Jim, and she froze. Her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed. Yup, there was that _look_ again, same as before, fierce and aflame. Jim grinned his broadest, flirtiest grin, and lifted hand in a friendly wave.

"Hello again, Miss Uhura. Beautiful day isn't it?"

"_You._" Venom, sheer venom, issued from her impeccably lipsticked mouth.

So yeah, his miniscule hope that she would not remember who he was? Shot to hell. He decided to keep the charm going; it was often his greatest, and sometimes only, weapon.

"So I hear you're a jazz singer in addition to working at this fine establishment; that is _fantastic_."

"_Out. Now._" She pointed to the door.

Bones looked amused by their interaction, but apparently decided he'd better step in and play mediator. "Nyota, this is my idiot friend Jim Kirk, who you've had the misfortune of meeting before." Jim shot him a glare; _idiot_ friend? "I brought him here to properly apologize to you, and also because he needs some information on San Francisco's past."

Uhura crossed her arms and was now shooting Bones The Look, which Jim felt was completely justified on account of the idiot comment. "He felt me up and caused a scene, Leonard."

"I know. I was there. But your knowledge of the city is unparalleled; can't think of anybody else I could take him to besides your boss who would know half as much." Laying on the flattery pretty thick, aren't we Bones? But it seemed to be working, good on him. "I would consider it a great personal favor if, once Jim has completed a sufficient amount of groveling, you would be gracious enough to help us find out whatever it is he's looking for."

"_Grovelling?_ Bones, honestly—"

Bones shut him up with a look of his own and a finger in his face. "_You_ don't speak yet." He turned back to Uhura. "I will also make it my personal mission to keep him out of your hair from this moment on. The sooner he gets his question asked, the sooner I'll get him out of this shop and out of your life, I promise."

Jim thought his head would explode. It was exactly like the first time his mom had made him apologize to a neighbor lady for some stupid thing he had done to her yard. He couldn't remember what anymore, but she had marched him straight over to apologize, then the two of them had stood around talking over him like he wasn't there, chatting up a storm about the silly things kids get into nowadays and how kids had been better behaved in their day and how hard it was for his mom being a single mother with two young boys to raise. And he had had to stand there and just take it. This was _exactly_ _like that._

Uhura looked at Bones, considering. Then she raised her eyes to the heavens as if invoking assistance from a higher power and sighed. "Fine. For you though, not him."

Bones smiled at her. "Thanks, darlin'. You are a queen and a scholar."

She smiled at him. "But of course." Then she turned a flintier gaze back onto Jim, expectant. Bones pushed him towards her. "Go on. Apologize to the lady."

_Exactly like._ "Um, I'm sorry for feeling you up. And for, you know, ruining your night at the club." Bones gave him yet another look, which Jim wanted to roll his eyes at but figured now, right in the middle of an apology, was definitely not the time. He went closer to her and looked her directly in the eyes; all annoyance at this whole ridiculous situation aside, he truly _was_ sorry for offending her; he wasn't _that_ big of a jerk, after all. He just hated being forced to man up about it like a five year old. "I showed a complete lack of respect for you; it was hardly the proper way to treat a lady minding her own business at a poetry reading. I promise to never approach you in that manner again—" Oh, that was a promise he would _definitely_ be keeping, "—and hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me."

Uhura looked at Jim for a long time, as if trying to ascertain whether he was being sincere. Something he had expressed, either in his words or tone or face, must have passed the test, because at last she nodded and stepped back. "Fine. Apology accepted." Thank _God._ "So what kind of historical information are you looking for concerning San Francisco?"

He pulled out the catalog he had gotten from the Legion of Honor and handed it to her. "I need any information you can give me on the woman in this portrait. Please." It would not do to forget his manners right now, he was sure. It seemed to be a good move; she took the brochure from him without a trace of animosity and studied it. "Her last name is Grayson, I believe, according to her tombstone."

Both Uhura and Bones looked up at him at that revelation. "You visited her portrait and where she was buried?" Asked Bones, his eyebrows raised sky high. Jim visiting an art museum, then the grave of a woman he didn't know, was definitely unusual, and he swore he could actually see the red flags rising in Bones' mind. After they got done squeezing Uhura for information, his friend would be squeezing _him _for some, Jim just knew it. And as he hadn't told him about Pike or Spock yet, it would certainly make for an awkward conversation. For the hundredth time in the last half hour, Jim regretted ever getting Bones involved; this whole outing was turning into one giant mess.

_Please,_ he prayed, let Uhura know something and make it all worthwhile. "Um, yeah. Do you know anything about her?" Jim asked, turning towards Uhura and blocking out Bones' expression.

"As a matter of fact, I do," she said, looking over at him. "It's one of the sadder, more forgotten stories, but if you want I can tell you what I know."

A sad story, just like he had suspected. Jim nodded at her, grateful. "Please do. It would be a big help."

"One moment." Uhura went around the store, carefully examining the shelves and pulling a book out on occasion. She returned with a small stack and sat in a chair that allowed her to face them while sitting behind a desk. She opened one of the books she had chosen, a large picture-filled volume on the California Mid-Winter Exposition of 1894, and started to flip through it as she talked.

"As you said, her name was Amanda Grayson. I don't know much about her early life, other than she moved to the Bay area from Canada when she was a young woman and got a job here as a teacher. She did that for many years. Then sometime before 1907, in what would have been her late twenties or early thirties, she met Sareku Miyajima." There was that name that Sulu had mentioned. She turned the book she had opened around to face them and pointed to a stern-looking, tall Japanese man in one of the photos, standing next to some other uncomfortable-looking businessmen in a Japanese garden. Jim grabbed a chair, sat across the desk from her, and looked closer at the picture. Bones glanced at the photo, then wandered away from the two of them to explore the shop, but it was obvious he was still listening.

"Sareku was born in Japan, and was the head of a large shipping business that specialized in trade between our two countries; they probably used the ports of San Francisco as a main shipping hub. He was also one of the main financial backers of the Japanese garden exhibit in Golden Gate Park, built for the 1894 Expo, which was where this picture was taken. After the exhibition was over, he helped turn it into the Japanese Tea Garden. It's hard to say when Sareku and Amanda first met, but they would definitely have run into each other after the 1906 earthquake; there are records of her helping the displaced residents living in the gardens until their homes were restored, and he would have been helping to rebuild the gardens and assist the Japanese citizens temporarily residing there. Whenever they did meet, we know for certain that in 1907 Amanda bore his child."

McCoy looked up from the medical books he had been examining. "Really?"

Uhura pulled another book from her stack and began rifling through it. "Yes, a boy."

"Named Spock, right?" asked Jim.

Uhura looked up at him, confused. "No, Kenpei. It means united in Japanese, possibly chosen because of his mixed heritage."

_Kenpei?_ The hell? Jim was confused; he had been sure that Spock was related to the Amanda from the portrait, most likely she was his mother as it made the most sense. Did he have his facts mixed up? Were his instincts going south now that he was no longer on the force? It didn't seem possible. Uhura was continuing on so Jim stopped his inner questioning and paid attention.

"By all accounts they were a happy couple and family. Shortly after Kenpei's birth Amanda moved into a large house Sareku had purchased for her, just a few blocks from Japantown on the corner of Eddy and Gough. Mother and son settled in, and things were content for several years, until around the time of the First World War." Uhura paused as she reached the page she was apparently looking for, studied it. "Around that time, shortly after the Pan-Pacific International Exposition in 1915, Sareku took Kenpei and moved with him back to Japan, leaving Amanda in San Francisco."

Both of the men stared at her. "But Japan and the US were allies during the Great War," said McCoy. "Surely he wasn't afraid—"

"No, the move had nothing to do with the war, actually. I didn't mean for it to sound that way. Sareku was already married back in Japan, and had been for at least two decades before he met Amanda. His wife was related somehow to the emperor and had other political connections, and his business provided a lot of wealth, so the marriage was most likely an arranged one for the benefit of both their families." She paused, rifling though a book which, according to the titles on top of the pages, had something to do with Japanese history. "Sorry, I'm not as up to date on the Taisho era as I ought to be. This may take a moment."

Jim would normally insert a smart retort about now but held his tongue. He wanted to know why a man would abandon a mistress he supposedly loved and whisk himself and their child, probably eight to nine years old by that time, halfway across the world; he rightly assumed that any smartass comments directed at Uhura's knowledge gaps would annoy rather than amuse her, and thus not be conducive to her giving him that information. So instead he rifled through the pictures in the book about the Expo and waited for her to continue.

"Right, here it is. Around the time of Kenpei's birth, and continuing on in the time of the Great War, there was an uprising of dissent in Japan against the emperor and the ruling classes. Sareku's oldest son, who would have been Kenpei's half brother, was involved in that uprising." She skimmed the text on the page. "Yes, his name is here, listed as one of the people killed during the violent protests. It doesn't give a date though."

"And this is important because..."

"Because, Mr. Kirk, that left Sareku with no heir. He must have decided to have Kenpei, his illegitimate son, be adopted by his wife and therefore become the legitimate heir of his business." She looked up at him. "Which means that most likely, his wife made him give up Amanda to allow that to happen. At least that's what I imagine occurred; it makes the most sense."

Jim frowned, looked at the photo of Sareku again. "So the man ditched her, just like that."

"Inheriting the Miyajima shipping business would have secured her son a good future; in my opinion, Amanda probably allowed it to happen for Kenpei's sake."

"Though she would have had no choice in the end, either way."

Uhura sighed and looked at him sadly. "No, she wouldn't have. It probably just lessened the blow of losing her son and the man she loved simultaneously."

"That is...."

"I told you this was an unhappy story."

"So you did." It reminded him far too much of some of the cases he had worked on as a detective; the hard ones involving broken families and unfortunate endings.

"And it doesn't get any better."

"Really? Worse than that?"

Uhura nodded and opened a book on public records. "He left her the house, among other things; she remained there for a time, but when money got tight she sold it and moved into a small apartment. Having a child out of wedlock, with a man of a different race, had disconnected her from most of her previous social circles, so she spent a great deal of her time alone. She took up teaching again, but was fired eventually."

"For?"

"Mental instability." Uhura stopped on a page. "She was institutionalized for a period of time, then released; this kept occurring until her death in 1930." Uhura looked up at him, turned the book around so he could read the section she was looking at. It was a book containing old newspaper articles, typed up; among them was an article whose title read _Woman's Body Found Washed Up On Shore Is Identified._ "By that time her mind was all but gone; she had taken to wandering the streets in rags, crying out for her lost child and asking people where he was, humming arias over and over. They found her body washed up in the Bay; apparently she had thrown herself in."

"Sad story."

"Sad but not unusual. Money and power equaled freedom in that era, and still do. The freedom to give, and the freedom to take away. There are many stories like that; far too many stories." She closed her book and looked at him. "Leonard told me you were a detective, so I'm sure you know all too well about the depths a human being can sink to when they feel there is no way out."

"My personal belief is that there is always a way out, no matter how bad a situation gets; but yes, I've certainly seen from first-hand experience what desperation can do." Jim looked at her, really looked at her. "How do you stand it?"

She looked at him, surprised. "What?"

"How do you stand being in a job where you read up on stuff like this, day after day? So much of history seems to be about death and unending unhappiness and tragic decisions made by foolish, selfish, weak people. Doesn't it make you go crazy at times, the madness of it all?"

Uhura leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and tilted her head, considering him. "You know, I've never really thought about it before. What about you? What got you through the tough cases, the ones that almost broke your resolve?"

Jim thought about it while contemplating the weird turn this whole conversation had taken. Things always seemed to find a way of coming back to him, even though in this case that had certainly not been his intent. "Finding justice, I think? Knowing that I knew the truth about what had happened and that I had done what I could to make things right. Though making things right doesn't always equate to a happy outcome."

Uhura nodded in understanding. "I think it's the truth in history that keeps me at it; learning about things as they really are, no matter how well people try to conceal it." She rested her chin in one of her hands, elbow on the table, thinking. "And not all history is depressing, of course; there are beautiful stories too, of sacrifice and undying love and people doing the right thing even when it seems like the impossible choice to make." Uhura looked past Jim, too caught up in what she was thinking to focus her eyes on anything in particular. "I think every person is presented with the same basic challenges, the same basic human struggles of conflict and loss and despair that seem to repeat over and over again. It's seeing how each person chooses to face those struggles that fascinates me. And history is essentially that; the individual choices, good or bad, made by real people since time began, and how those choices ripple out and shape our lives even today."

And that, Jim realized, was why someone like Uhura had ended up in an obscure little bookshop in a place like downtown San Francisco. Her intense love of history was obvious—she was literally getting moony-eyed just talking about it, in front of a guy who was practically a stranger and who had managed to tick her off the last time they had met—and the Argonaut gave her free reign to explore that love to her heart's content. Jim watched her and smiled, a little touched at seeing this side of her. He would never love history the same way she did, of course, but he could still appreciate the depth of her feelings.

Uhura eventually came to and began to hastily gather up the books on the desk, avoiding Jim's eyes; she was obviously embarrassed about letting him see so much of her. She got up and started putting the books back on their shelves. Bones moved from where he had been sitting, a silent observer of their conversation; Jim had been so engrossed in the story that he had forgotten his friend was even there.

"Um, so what ever happened to her son?"

"To Kenpei?" Uhura glanced over in his direction, then resumed her shelving. "I assume he did eventually take over his father's business when the time came, probably sometime after his mother's death. If he came back to San Francisco to run it, as his father had once done, and was still an American citizen, in 1942 he would have either joined the military or been sent to an internment camp to wait out the war. All the Japanese Americans living in San Francisco were sent to a camp in Utah named Topaz." Uhura shook her head. "Another sad, forgotten part of history. If he lived through the war and found a way to protect his property and business holdings before he was shipped off, he probably came back here to try and restart his old life. I'm sorry my details on Kenpei are a little fuzzy; I found Amanda's story much more interesting at the time, so I focused most of my study on her. I can look up more about him if you like."

Jim smiled. "Maybe; I'll call you if that becomes necessary." He flinched. "Um, if you'll let me call you."

She laughed; it was a very pleasant sound. "Only if you keep it strictly business."

He smiled. "Can do." He got up out of the chair and headed towards the door. "Thanks for your help, you've given me a lot to think about."

"Glad to, amazingly. Bye Leonard," she added as Bones grabbed his hat and coat and prepared to follow Jim out.

"'Bye, Nyota. Delightful as always."

As Jim opened the shop door and their feet hit the pavement outside, he could have sworn that through the shop's large front windows he saw Uhura shaking her head in disbelief at the pair of them. And he really couldn't blame her, not one bit. He shook his own head, struck by the crazy twist and turns his life seemed to be taking, and walked with Bones back to the car.

•

Jim had barely settled into the driver's seat and pulled out into the busy early evening traffic when Bones started in on him.

"All right, Jim, out with it."

"Out with what?" He knew acting all innocent was pointless, but felt there was no harm in trying.

"This whole Amanda business. What's got you chasing the ghost of a mad woman all around the Bay area? And you owe me one so you'd better start spilling."

"I owe you one? For what?"

"Don't insult me by playing naive; for doing you a favor, you fool." That reminded him of what Bones had said in the shop and he frowned.

"You call that a favor? After all that 'My idiot friend' crap in the bookstore? I'm not a child you know."

"Then don't act like one. Besides, my putting my neck out there was the only reason you weren't kicked straight to the curb; show a little gratitude."

Jim grudgingly admitted that the man had a point; his wounded pride aside, Uhura had been a wealth of information, and without Bones he never would have gotten it. "Fine. What do you want me to tell you?"

The rest of the trip back to Bones' apartment was spent discussing the job that Jim had received from Pike. He didn't share everything, of course, but he let his friend get the jist of what was going on. And he definitely didn't share his personal impressions about Spock.

"So you think this Spock person is really Amanda's son?"

"One and the same. I'm sure of it, I just have to do some more digging to be certain."

"And you also believe Pike, that Spock is being possessed by the spirit of his dead mother?"

"That I haven't decided yet. And I'm not even sure Pike believes it, to be honest; he was just repeating what Spock had told him about the concept of ikiryo. Supernatural stuff aside, he's still concerned with his partner's well being, after all, regardless of what's causing it."

Bones grew thoughtful for a bit, and when they pulled up to the front of his apartment he made no moves to get out. "Is he attractive, Jim?"

Jim _so_ did not want to be having this conversation. Usually discussing men and women with Bones was no big deal, but somehow, with this case and the people involved, it was. "Pike? He's not my type and is pretty ancient, but—"

"I'm talking about Spock, the guy you've been stalking all week."

"_Tailing_. There's a difference."

"You always implied that when it came to private detectives, stalking and tailing were one in the same as far as you were concerned."

Touché. "Well, that was before I was hired to _be_ one."

"Just answer my question or I'll do something to make you wind up back in that corset."

_"Chest Compressor! God! _That's it, get out of my car."

"Not until you tell me."

"I _will_ manhandle you, old man, if that's what it takes to make you scram. And trust me, for once you will _not_ enjoy it."

Bones grinned and gave him a strange, scrutinizing look. "Fine, I'm leaving, but only because you just answered my question." He slammed the car door on a gaping Jim and left, grin still in place, giving his friend a wave without turning around before heading up his apartment steps.

The drive back to the apartment was a torturous one; if thoughts could take on a tangible form, Jim's would have filled up the car interior to the point of suffocation. He drove past the famous crooked part of Lombard street, which happened to rest on the block just up the hill from his place, looked up and over and watched for a moment the tourists snapping photos of cars attempting the slow, sinuous route down the impossible curves. He turned onto Lombard and drove down it, parking in his normal spot on the very end. As he exited the car and headed towards his apartment, keys jangling in his hand, the idea of sitting inside all night and stewing in his thoughts suddenly seemed completely oppressive. So instead Jim bypassed his place and walked down to the corner, turned left on Jones Street, and just kept going.

The blue of the Bay, growing deeper by the minute in the fading daylight, lay before him, as did the hulking mass of Alcatraz that crouched in the middle of it. As melodramatic as it sounded, Jim felt the island couldn't hold a candle at the moment to what was going on in the prison of his own mind. He walked on, swept up in a riptide of emotions and thoughts as fast and unforgiving as the currents churning in the water beyond.

He had always done his best thinking when wandering aimlessly around the city; it freed up his mind somehow, sharpened it and allowed him to better contemplate the mysteries he was facing, whether they came from his latest case or his own personal troubles. He kept walking north along Jones until he ran out of road, winding up at the water's edge. Instead of heading towards Fisherman's Warf and its mobs of weekend people, he chose the opposite way and continued on until the herds of bodies thinned and the streets once again turned quiet. He wound up on Bay Street for a bit, wandering through a residential area until he found himself stumbling onto the majestic Grecian structure that was the Palace of Fine Arts, its giant neoclassical columns glowing red in the sunset and reflected in the blue-green pond that hugged it.

It was the perfect place to end up, actually; the families feeding the ducks and the lovers strolling hand in hand highlighted the two things he had been brooding over in a rather tangible, poetic way. He wandered past them all to a deserted green bench at the edge of the park. He sat down and rested his feet—it had been a long walk, after all—noticing the barely visible towers of the Golden Gate Bridge just beyond the trees.

Jim was pretty remiss in his knowledge of San Francisco history, but he did know that the Palace of Fine Arts had been built for the 1915 Expo that Uhura had mentioned; Bones had waxed on about it once when they had come here together. Watching the happy couples, he wondered if Amanda and Sareku had wandered here together during the Expo, maybe with Kenpei in tow, shortly before Sareku had left for Japan with their son and shattered her life forever. He could picture what it would be like for her to visit this place afterwords, utterly alone, the serenity and peace of it unable to console her, the happiness of the people gravitating here taunting her, and it was painful to imagine.

Amanda was the first mystery he had been contemplating. She was no longer just a nameless person on a tombstone to him; visiting the places connected to her and learning more about her life had made her real. The unfairness of her situation upset him, as did knowing that there was nothing he could do for her now. Unless...unless there was something to this ikiryo thing after all, and she had somehow returned and was living again in the body of her beloved son. A week ago Jim would have laughed at the idea of seriously contemplating this as a possibility, but what if? Stranger things had happened, surely. Assuming for once that this was an actual possibility, what would be the key to exorcising her spirit, of helping set her free? He didn't believe for a second that, in such a case, Spock harming himself was the only option; there had to be a way to help her rest for good without destroying her living child in the process. He would find a way, it was only a matter of time.

And that child, Spock, was the second mystery, and was what he had been ruminating over the most during his wanderings. He had told Bones that Pike held no attraction to him, because of his age and the type of person he was and the family connection. This was true. In that same vein of thought, anyone would assume that Spock would also fit that mold.

For starters, the man had to be pushing fifty—he looked pretty young for a fifty year old though, with few if any wrinkles and just the slightest dusting of grey; perhaps aging well was a common Asian trait?—and Jim usually liked to hit it off romantically with people his own age.

Their tastes also differed; Spock was an impeccable dresser, which Jim could appreciate, but the man veered towards expensive, rather conservatively designed clothing. Jim was no slouch in the fashion department, but his tastes ran a bit bolder and cheaper. Jim lumped Spock's bizarre, roman-style haircut into the whole dressing thing as well.

As for the finer things in life, Spock—and definitely Amanda-possessed Spock—apparently liked classical opera, and was probably a fine art collector or bonsai gardener or something equally classy—in contrast, Jim preferred his swinging jazz in dirty, smoky clubs, his taste in art happily nonexistent.

And lastly there were the mannerisms; there was a stillness to Spock's actions and a dignified air about him, almost regal; like he had somehow drifted into this world from another place and time. In contrast, Jim was constantly in motion, and was well aware of the earthiness making up his own persona, knew he radiated cocky bastard more than anything else.

And while Jim had certainly in the past hooked up or become friends with people possessing one or two of these traits at a time—Bones being a perfect example—pieced together, they made up a person Jim could hardly imagine himself being able to talk to, never mind having romantic feelings for.

And yet. In spite of all that, he had to admit that he was deeply, hopelessly infatuated with this mysterious man who he'd been traipsing after for the past week like some blue-eyed, blond-haired shadow. He had realized during his walk, after Bones pointed it out to him in the car, just how serious his feelings for the man actually were. What made it even more bizarre was the fact that Jim had never even spoken to him once, never looked him directly in the eyes or kissed him or done any of the other intimate things Jim associated with affection. But he wanted all those things with Spock, wanted them badly. It unnerved and exhilarated him, the idea that in a single week this one person, as alien to him as could be, had somehow hijacked the sense of control he had over his life and scattered it to the four winds.

If anything between them actually occurred, if this man already tied to someone else ever deigned to return his feelings, there was a good chance that Jim would lose himself, utterly and irrevocably, to those emotions.

And he didn't know how to feel about that.

Man, was he ever screwed.

::

Author's Notes:

Soooooo much backstory revealed in this one, plus Jim contemplating his feeeeeelings. Hope it didn't put you to sleep.

• Miles Davis and the other jazz/bebop greats were alive and swinging in San Francisco at this time, and heavily influenced people like the beats. I pictured that Jim, like Scotty in the movie, would not be a big fan of classical music, but I think he would really enjoy jazz. It's hard to know with the reboot if Nu!Jim is as cultured as Prime!Kirk; I'm pretending not, if you haven't noticed.

• I took Bones' lines about the gay old bohemian days and the Embarcadero, and Jim's repeating it, pretty much word for word from the movie. Other bits and echoes of the two movies are in there, of course, but those were by far the most deliberate.

• The Argonaut is the real name for the store in SF that the Argosy in Vertigo was based on. Hitch took his crew there and photographed pretty much everything, replicating a good portion of it for the movie. It sounds like my kind of bookshop. =) And they do indeed sell old medical books.

• The Cellar was an important jazz club in San Francisco in that era (it's gone now), and Meltzer did indeed perform there.

• The idea of Uhura performing in a Beat-era San Francisco was just too fantastic to not include. So I did. =) Author's privilege.

• City Lights was and is an unparalleled bookshop. It was one of the first to print and sell Beat poetry. And yes, it did have crazy parties in the basement.

• Yes, I totes turned Sarek into Sareku for Japanification purposes. (headdesk) Do not judge me.

• The last name Miyajima comes from the name of the estate of George Turner Marsh, one of the many people connected to building and establishing the Japanese Tea Garden (and whose real lives I pulled from to flesh out Sareku and Spock's backstory. The others are M. H. deYoung, John McLaren, and Makato Hagiwara.)

• I decided to use the name Kenpai (means unity/united in japanese) because Spock's name in Vulcan means uniter. I'm sure you die-hard Trekkies know this already. ;)

• The painting of Amanda obviously does not exist in real life and therefore is not hanging in the Legion of Honor, but I've based it off of real paintings by William Merritt Chase. He was an East coast impressionist with connections to the Monterey Bay artists and a love of Japonais, and it didn't seem that crazy of an idea for Sareku to commission him to come to San Francisco and paint a portrait of Amanda. I've kind of combined two paintings of his together in my mind to make up the portrait of Amanda.

• The house on Eddy and Gough was really there and is featured in Vertigo as the McKittrick Hotel, though it is sadly gone now.

• There was truly a lot of conflict in Japan with the socialist/anarchist/democratic factions versus the empirical government in the early 1900's. So picturing Sybock being a member of that contingent, when he advocated emotionalism on Vulcan, did not seem like an odd fit.

• The 1906 San Francisco earthquake was truly a big deal at the time. It started a fire that ravaged through the whole city; pretty much destroyed everything. People did actually camp in the park just to have a place to sleep, many of them Japanese. I kind of picture Amanda coming to help the people staying in the gardens, like a red cross nurse or something, and meeting up with Sareku that way. Uhura shares my theory, hah.

• The Japanese internment camp stuff is, of course, shamefully real, and will come up later so I won't talk much about it now.

• On one of the days I went sightseeing in SF, I took a side trip and made my way to Lombard Street and Scotty/Jim's apartment. It is really and truly there still, on the corner of Lombard and Jones. I snapped a few reference pics and got my bearings of the area around it. After seeing for myself that Alcatraz was clearly visible from Jones Street, I knew I wanted to include it in the story, but had no clue when or how that would occur. This seemed like a good place; hope that it works all right. And I did end up that evening of sightseeing at the Palace of Fine Arts, hah, though I got there by taxi instead of on foot.

• Jim making sense of things by taking long walks arose from hints of it in the movie, though I have fleshed them out for my own purposes. (Plus it is more interesting I think, if a character is doing a lot of internal dialogue, to have something going on around them; in this case Jim moving around the city was the easiest thing.) There is a scene in Vertigo where Scotty visits Union Square, then ends up in the next scene back at his apartment. When I actually placed the square on a map, I was like holy crap, he walked all the way to freakin' downtown! That square was not just around the block, but was really pretty far away. So I decided that Jim would do the same, and made it a much more visible part of his character.


	5. Chapter 5

It was during Jim's second week on the job that he witnessed Spock's first attempt to kill himself.

In the beginning the day unfolded just like all the days before. Spock emerged from his apartment wearing another beautifully tailored suit; today's was navy blue, with a deep brown hat, scarf, and shoes. The flower shop, the cemetery, the Legion—Spock followed a schedule that Jim was sure he could now do in his sleep. As he stood for the dozenth time and watched Spock watching Amanda, her visage forever frozen in oil and canvas, his mind wandered, thinking _way_ too much for the miniscule amount of moving he was doing. It traveled to places probably best left buried, but if there was one thing Jim Kirk was good at, it was digging up what he shouldn't. That he would also be a pro at doing it to _himself_ as well as to unsuspecting suspects, well, it irked but should have come as no surprise.

The idea had first sprung as he was entering the building, tipping his hat to one of the gallery attendants whose face was becoming familiar to him from the repeated visits. The thought crossed his mind as to whether or not the man had the same powers of recognition as Jim. Did he notice the same grey-haired man coming to see the same lone painting almost every day, rain or shine? What about the blonde man recently added to the mix, trailing in not a few minutes after him, day after day, hanging around the same wing and then leaving shortly after the grey-haired man did? Had they struck his attention? And if the attendant _did_ notice, what did he, a daily witness to these activities taking place in his museum, think was going on?

God, Jim must look like a total stalker.

The thought struck him like a blow to the face. And a nagging question entered his mind, digging, probing, disturbing as he stood there and watched Spock.

Well, he _was_ stalking him, wasn't he?

At first he wanted to dismiss the thought entirely; after all, he was being _paid_ to do this. Pike had come to _him,_ asked _him_ to tail the man and learn the mysteries of Spock's day; it's not stalking if it's your job, right?

But as much as he tried, he couldn't get that rationalization to stick. Deep down he knew that he was far more invested in Spock—currently sitting on the bench, temporarily lost in gazing at Amanda—than he should be, and in a way that no mere paycheck could account for. This assignment was bringing up emotions in him for that man that had nothing to do with cracking the mystery or reaping the satisfaction of successfully completing what he had been tasked with. Emotions he didn't want to think about, much less name. And he knew that those emotions in this context sunk him very close to the mindset of the sick stalkers he had taken great pride in sweeping from the streets. It creeped him out, a lot, and somehow the fact that he was getting paid to do it made it _more_ twisted, not less.

God, something was really, _really_ wrong with him.

Before he had time to sort out exactly what that was, Spock rose from the bench and drew closer to the painting, staring at it almost reverently. Jim stared at his profile, entranced. Then suddenly Spock turned to leave; Jim made himself scarce and followed Spock back out.

However, this time when Spock left the Legion he turned his Jaguar left instead of right, eventually taking Pacific Avenue. Confused and curious at the change in routine, Jim followed, ever the shadow. They each passed in turn the white pillars that marked the entrance to the Presidio and vanished into the lush, treelined paths, following the twists and turns until they wound up entering the chain-linked gates of Old Fort Point that rested below the Golden Gate Bridge. They had taken the long way around to reach the Point, a fact which made Jim even more confused as to what they were doing and what coming here might mean.

They drove along the curving shoreline road until they reached the beginning of the dock at the base of the bridge, the red-bricked fort looming on their left. Spock got out of his car and stared at the water. Jim exited his own vehicle and stayed as far back as he could, coming up slowly from behind.

Spock began meandering leisurely along the edge of the dock; in his hand he held the faded white flowers collected from their earlier visit to the cemetery. The mouth of the Bay lay before them and to the right, its blue water in motion, and the Pacific Ocean glimmered on the left. The towering red-orange pillars of the Golden Gate stretched far above them, marking the place where the two bodies of water bled into each other.

Spock kept moving along the dock until he disappeared from view, obscured by the fort. Jim followed, using the red brick as cover, and saw Spock standing at the edge of the dock, slowly removing pieces of the dying bouquet and tossing them into the water. The white petals fluttered in the strong, cool breeze until they made their inevitable descent into the water. Spock repeated the motion slowly, almost ritualistically, until all of the flowers and stems had been thrown to the waves. Once his task was complete he stood there, a statue, his filmy lightweight scarf catching the wind currents and floating along beside him.

Then, so swiftly that Jim thought he was dreaming, Spock suddenly leapt from the edge and vanished into the water below.

Jim's heart leapt into his throat. In a flash he was throwing his coat and hat off and running to the edge of the dock, diving over its side and into the Bay. He gasped momentarily at the shock of the liquid coldness that hit him from all sides, then resurfaced and swam out towards the body floating in front of him. He grabbed hold of Spock with one arm, firmly around his chest, and paddled back to shore with the other, kicking for all he was worth. Spock made no protest or movement to help; the man seemed completely comatose.

Jim was a strong swimmer and Spock had not drifted out too far, but the current was fierce and pulled at them constantly in an attempt to suck them out into deeper water. Jim hoped to God that Spock was still breathing, because he didn't know if he'd have the strength to revive him once they finally made it out. At last he steered them over to a narrow ledge of stairs that led down to their level, grabbed ahold of Spock in both of his arms and carefully navigated the slick steps back to the top of the dock.

Spock's car was much closer, so that was where Jim headed as fast as he was able; Spock's regular weight and his waterlogged clothes exacerbated Jim's fading strength, slowing down the trip. Jim staggered a little as he reached the car, his muscles screaming in protest; he wrangled the passenger door open and carefully lowered Spock into the seat, minding both of their heads. Once free of Spock's weight in his arms he knelt over him and studied him desperately for any signs of damage from the water.

"Spock," Jim panted, desperate for the man to wake up. Spock's breaths were shallow, his eyes closed, his body shivering slightly. "Spock." Jim repeated the name, utterly forgetting in his fear and alarm that he should not know the man's name at all, should not be saying it now. Eyelids flickered once, then opened, and Jim was suddenly staring into pools of rich brown, hazy and unfocused. They remained open for only a moment, then shut once more as Spock sank back into the inky black of unconsciousness. Jim felt like they dragged a piece of him with them into the darkness.

Somehow Jim managed not to get into an accident as he turned Spock's car around, fleeing the Point, and drove it towards Russian Hill, the man dripping wet and comatose beside him. The trip back was a blur; he knew he was not going the speed limit, knew that he had left more than a few cars in his dust, probably cursing him as he cut them off or weaved in and out of traffic. But he really couldn't be bothered to care at this point. He had to get Spock warm and dry and awake; everything and everyone else could go to hell.

He parked the Jaguar in front of his apartment, doing a horrendous job of it in his haste. He quickly killed the engine, grabbed the keys from the ignition, and flew from the driver's seat to circle around the car. He opened the passenger door and bent down, carefully pushing Spock forward a bit to get an arm behind him, tucking his other arm under Spock's knees to better lift him out. The familiar weight slid into his arms, no less heavy than it had been at the dock. He somehow got the passenger door shut and his apartment door open while holding the man, carrying him directly into the bedroom. He threw back the covers on the left side of the bed—the side he normally slept on—and carefully lowered Spock down, resting his head gently on the pillows, fluffing out his damp grey hair to air dry it a bit.

Jim began to strip Spock of his jacket and shoes and socks, knowing that the fastest way to get the man dry and warm would be to remove him of his wet things. He unknotted the man's brown striped tie and unbuttoned his white shirt, revealing an equally sodden, clinging undershirt, tufts of damp chest hair peeking out from underneath it. The outer shirt removed, he began on the pants, fumbling with the belt and fly but eventually getting them open and off.

God, he had never been so nervous about undressing a man before; his fingers were practically shaking. He tried to convince himself that it was because his hands were still chilled from the cold water of the Bay but failed.

Almost reverently he began pulling off Spock's underclothes. Jim was trying very, very hard to be a gentleman, but his well-deserved reputation as the most lustful playboy in the Bay area had not come from having any strong degree of self control. So his eyes slipped to glance down at the curves of Spock's body: his strong, well-formed chest, the toned muscles of his stomach and thighs, the hair on his forearms and lower legs. The greying chest hair, which trickled down his torso and formed a trail leading to...

God, he was beautiful.

Jim gently covered him up with the blankets and sat down at the edge of the bed. He carded his fingers once more through Spock's hair, course yet silky to the touch, doing his best to get it dry. Then gently, not wanting to wake the man but unable to resist, he traced the planes of Spock's face with his fingers. His cheekbones and mouth and forehead, his nose, the tiny laugh lines at the corner of his eyes. He looked so peaceful like this, so vulnerable. Jim's concern for him was tempered slightly by the joy of being so close to him, of having the chance to watch over him while he slept. If he wasn't careful he could easily lose himself in this, be perfectly content to just sit here and do nothing but hover over him like some second-string guardian angel. With a sigh, Jim forced himself to turn away and leave the bed; after all, he had things to do before Spock came to.

His first item of business was to change out of his own wet clothes, into grey wool slacks and a white shirt, pulling on his green sweater for extra warmth. He grabbed his bathrobe—deep red with a pattern of subtle blue and yellow dots—from behind the bathroom door and tossed it onto the bed, ready for Spock to wear when he finally woke up. He grabbed all the wet clothes and shoes and carried them into the kitchen, hanging what he could up to dry by the sink and laying down towels to catch the dripping water. That done, he went to the immense fireplace in his living room and lit it, stoking it until the embers caught and began crackling with heat and energy. It was a welcome barrier against the coolness of the evening, and one he hoped would help get Spock warm.

Jim sat on the couch next to the fire; he had kept the bedroom door open, and from his position could watch Spock as he slept, able to see if he moved or woke up or needed anything. The man slept like the dead, however. Jim stared into the fire, enjoying the heat that radiated from it and removed the remaining traces of chill he'd had from jumping into the bay. Eventually his body, tired from the physical and emotional stresses of the day and coming down from the massive adrenaline rush he had just experienced, dozed off, succumbing to the warmth of the flames and the soothing sound of the crackling wood.

As the hours ticked along the afternoon light faded into twilight, then the deep blue-black of night. Jim awoke with a start, saw that the fire had died down and that Spock was still sleeping in the other room. After realizing how late it was he went back to the bedroom and stood over Spock; he had shifted a bit in his sleep, and his chest was still rising and falling, but other than that he looked the same as before. Surely he should be awake by now? Was there something Jim had missed doing, something important, that accounted for Spock sleeping for such a great length of time? He turned on the light on the bedroom nightstand, waited to see a reaction; nothing. Spock slept on.

Jim forced himself to calm down, plopped into a nearby chair, and grabbed the phone from the nightstand. He hated to make a call right next to the man, afraid of waking him, but it was his only phone and he was too nervous to just sit back and do nothing.

He dialed a number as familiar to him as his own, relieved when a very welcome voice answered.

"Hello?"

"Bones, it's me."

"Jim? Where the blazes have you been?" His voice, with its familiar gruffness, held traces of concern and relief.

"I've been around. Look, I need your help. Spock jumped into the Bay and I pulled him out. I brought him to my place to get him dry and warm, but he's been unconscious for a few hours now and I'm getting worried. What the hell should I do?"

"He jumped into the Bay?" Bones sounded incredulous. "What on earth made him decide to do that?"

"Goddamit Bones, never mind that!" Jim tried to keep his voice down, but couldn't help the fact that it still jumped a few decibels in concerned frustration. "I just remembered that when someone gets hurt you're supposed to keep them awake or they'll fall into a coma and maybe die, right? So should I be trying to wake him up?"

He heard his friend sigh over the receiver. "That's for a concussion, Jim. Did he hit his head?" Bones still sounded a bit exasperated but was now speaking in a soothing tone, probably to help calm him down. Jim realized how hysterical his voice had become; he forced himself to take a deep breath and stop panicking.

"No, I don't think so; he went in feet first and there were no rocks in that section."

"Then don't worry so much. Does his skin feel clammy or cold to the touch?"

Jim got up, went over to the bed and touched Spock's forearm gently; sometime during his sleep he had shifted and it now peeked out from under the covers. The idea of reaching under the covers to touch Spock anywhere else made him wary; he didn't want to do anything that might cause Spock to wake up, see a strange man standing over him, and panic. Plus the whole naked thing. He returned to the chair. "No, he feels dry, warm."

"Then as long as he's breathing normally and you keep him warm he should be fine. When he wakes up give him something hot to drink. And don't worry so much, you sound like you're about to have kittens."

Jim sighed in relief. "Thanks Bones. You're a Godsend."

"Yeah, yeah. Now explain to me how and why he jumped into the Bay in the first place."

"Well..." Jim looked over to Spock again.

And saw that the man had his eyes open and was looking straight at him.

Jim actually jumped back in his seat a little from the shock. Flustered, he gripped the phone tighter and stared back. "Bones, I have to go."

"No, Jim, you aren't going to weasel out of answering me that easy—"

"I really, _really_ can't talk right now. I'll call you later." And with that he hung up, one last exclamation from his friend cut short as the phone clicked off.

Jim just stared and stared at Spock. While he had been ending his conversation with Bones the man had propped himself up on his elbows, the blankets slipping down slightly to reveal the tops of his shoulders and his collarbone. The lamp on the nightstand threw out a yellowish light that gave his skin a soft glow, warming his chocolate brown eyes. Spock stared back at him, his expression so inscrutable that Jim could not tell if he was alarmed, embarrassed, confused, relieved, or amused by the situation. It was a daunting look to say the least.

Jim cleared his throat, deciding to make the first move to break the ice. He ruffled a hand through his hair, suddenly self-conscious; he was sure it had dried funny while he was asleep and was probably sticking up all over the place.

"So, um, how are you feeling?" Spock just stared at him, not answering, then looked down at the bed, his eyes taking in the situation of being naked in a stranger's house, with a young man he didn't know ogling him and asking about his health. He looked back to Jim and raised one eyebrow.

Well, there went his chance at a good first impression. Jim could have kicked himself; instead he stood and reached around for his bathrobe and thrust it towards Spock, unable to meet the man's eyes. Goddamn it, he better not be blushing.

"Well, you'll probably be wanting this...I'll just, uh, leave; feel free to come out and sit by the fire when you're ready." And with that he fled the bedroom, shutting the door and walking over to collapse onto the couch. He rested his head on his knees and clutched at his hair, utterly humiliated.

God, he had sounded like such an idiot. Jim had many times entertained the thought of what his first meeting with Spock might actually be like; it had usually involved Jim being smooth, possibly dapper if the situation merited, and hinged on Spock being receptive to that charm. That his fantasy moment would turn out to look more like a night of drunken kidnapping than a silver screen meet-cute was rather horrifying. He was sure that after tonight Spock would want nothing to do with him; he would grab his things and flee as soon as he was able, away from the creepy blonde-haired man who had dragged him here and stripped him naked and done who knows what to him. And who could blame him, really?

Normally Jim would stake his reputation on his ability to flirt his way out of such a situation. It was an invaluable talent of his, at once both a shield and a weapon. It got people off his back, on his side, or into his bedroom, and in his luckier moments a rousing combination of all three. But as much as he tried, all of the witty or cute or sophisticated things that made up the mainstay of his arsenal seemed to desert him. Spock was somehow decimating to his natural charm, leaving him nervous and stammering and looking like a giant fool. Maybe it was those brown eyes of his; they were a pair of evil mind-numbing weapons if he ever saw one.

Or maybe, something in him whispered, refusing to be ignored, it was because this might be the first time in his life Jim had to actually try to win someone over that he desperately wanted, and winning them truly felt like the single most important thing he would ever do.

He busied himself in an attempt to dissipate some of his nervous energy. He threw some more logs onto the dying fire, watched the flames burst to life again. There was no fog tonight, but it was still dark and cool, and Spock needed to stay warm. Outside his window, glittering in the blackness, Coit tower gleamed from Telegraph Hill like a beacon, dwarfing the lights from the smaller buildings around it. His windows may not have grand vistas of the bay or the mountains or the bridges, but he did have the tower, and that was something.

He went into the kitchen and made himself come coffee, enough for the two of them, checking on their clothes as the water heated. Satisfied they were drying properly, he headed back to the living room, a mug in hand, and reseated himself on the sofa by the fire. He took a sip of coffee and glanced over towards the bedroom; still no movement at the doorway. He sighed, placed his mug on the small table in front of him, and settled further into the cushions to wait.

At last, the doorknob clicked and moved, the door slowly opening. Jim sat up straight and stared as Spock stepped into the frame of the door and stood there in Jim's red robe. The light from the fire cast ever-changing shadows over him, playing with his hair and features. He looked at Jim with that same indecipherable look; Jim was helpless to do anything but look back.

After standing there for a moment, it was Spock this time who finally broke the ice. "I am at a loss as to why I am at this residence. I would be greatly receptive to an explanation of the circumstances."

His voice was a rich, slow baritone, his words using a cadence and pattern that was foreign to Jim. It sounded to his ears like the most beautiful thing in the world. He leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees, his fingers clasped together, not breaking contact with Spock's eyes.

"You ju...just fell in, is all. Into San Francisco Bay." Looking at Spock in _his_ robe, this close, his eyes bright and inquisitive, he couldn't bear to tell him the truth about what had actually happened. Luckily his days as a detective had taught him how to lie like a pro. "I fished you out and brought you here to my place, did the best I could to get you warm." He motioned to the kitchen, and Spock's gaze moved in that direction. "Your clothes are in there; they should be almost dry by now. I tried to dry off your hair and the rest of you as best I could."

Spock arched his brow again, making Jim's stomach flipflop. "Indeed." There was a tone to his voice that implied much, much more than the word alone managed to accomplish. Jim had the sense to be chagrined.

"Um, yeah, about the...total invasion of privacy. I'm really, really sorry about that; I just didn't know what else to do." He stood up; the intensity of Spock's eyes was making him nervous, and he grabbed on to any excuse to move around and away from that gaze. What Bones had told him sprung to mind. "Um, you should really come sit over here by the fire, finish getting dry. Can I get you some coffee, maybe a stiff drink?" He quickly batted his mind away from the innuendo that sprung to mind; he was trying to make a good impression, dammit; letting sex distract him was not an option.

Spock, of course, being a well bred gentleman and as unlike Jim as it was possible to be, either did not notice anything potentially provocative about the statement or politely chose to ignore it. "I do not regularly consume either beverage. But I would gladly accept some green tea if you have it."

Jim smiled at him, trying to project a vibe of friendly helpful rescuer instead of obsessive infatuated stalker to put him at ease. "You know, I just might. Be right back." He dashed into the kitchen and began rifling through his cabinets. He didn't drink green tea—or any kind of tea, really—on a regular basis, but one of his few on-again, off-again girlfriends was practically addicted to the stuff; he was positive she had left some of it behind after their last break up...yes! He smiled broadly, triumphant at finding a couple of packets in the back of a cabinet. He quickly boiled some water, poured it into a mug and dunked in a tea bag, banishing yet another sexual innuendo back to the dirty recesses of his mind. He reentered the room to find Spock kneeling Japanese style in front of the fireplace and warming himself, his body straight and still. When he handed the mug over, their hands brushed slightly; Jim felt a small thrill at the direct contact, hoped it wasn't outwardly noticeable.

Spock took one look at the mug offered to him and did that brow arching thing again. "Fascinating. The tea leaves appear to be encapsulated in a small pouch, with a string attached for easy extraction."

Jim burst out laughing; he couldn't help it. He was a giant ball of nervous tension and it felt good to release it somehow, however inappropriate the how might be. And the idea of anyone, especially this man, being intrigued by a bag of tea suddenly seemed like the most hilarious thing in the world. Spock may be this mysterious creature curled up in front of his fire that he very much wanted to understand, but he was still just a man, after all; Jim could work with that.

Maybe, Jim realized suddenly, he didn't need to be suaveness encapsulated around Spock, Bogart and Brando and Sinatra all in one. Maybe he just needed to be himself, the Jim that Bones and his mother saw. The idea was simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating.

Spock eyed him curiously, his eyes warmer than before. "I was not aware that I had said anything amusing."

Jim kept an easy grin in place. "You didn't; I just have an odd sense of humor. I hope the tea is up to your liking, despite its appearance."

"I am confident that it will be perfectly satisfactory." He held the mug delicately with both hands, one on the side and one on the bottom, and took a sip. He looked back up and nodded. "Yes, it is at a suitable temperature and potency. Thank you."

The warmth of his voice matched his words; Jim relaxed and reclaimed his seat on the couch. The position set Spock's face in profile beautifully as the flames cast intriguing shadows across it. _Damn that magnificent profile_. Jim's eyes moved from hairline to chin; he was trying not to stare outright but was pretty sure he was failing spectacularly. "Just out of curiosity, how do you normally make your tea?"

Spock tilted his head in the direction of Jim's voice. "I am very fond of the ceremonial way of serving tea; traditionally it is in a powdered form and whisked. However it is a more economizing use of my time to steep the loose leaves in a teapot, so that has become my preferred method."

"Well, I'm glad you like my version anyway." Jim's curiosity got the better of him, as it always did, and his head was suddenly overflowing with questions. As Spock did not seem adverse to being questioned, Jim decided to go with his impulse.

"If you'll permit my asking, do you remember anything at all about the moment when you fell in?"

Spock returned to staring into the fire and paused, thinking. He took another sip of tea. "I do not. It appears I am suffering some temporary memory lapse, perhaps occuring from the shock of hitting the water."

"Possibly." Jim took another sip of coffee and leaned forward to rest his arms on his knees, coffee mug still in hand. "How about before that? Do you remember where you were?"

Spock nodded and looked back over at him. "Yes. Old Fort Point, in the Presidio. I drove there to study the Golden Gate Bridge; I find its view aesthetically pleasing."

Jim smiled; Spock's way of talking was definitely unique, yet quite soothing. Perhaps learned from his father or their time in Japan? "What do you remember about being at the Point?"

Spock lowered his hands, still holding the mug, and rested them in his lap. "I remember exiting my vehicle and regretting that I had not thought to bring a coat. I walked over to the dock and admired the view, where the Bay meets the Pacific Ocean; the next thing I knew I was waking up in this apartment."

"Do you happen to remember what you had done earlier in the day that might have caused you to black out? Or a do you have a physical condition that might explain it?"

Spock looked over to him, raised a brow. "Your method of interrogation appears to be very direct."

Damn, he had slipped into detective mode somehow; Jim rubbed a hand behind the back of his neck, chagrined. "Sorry for the rudeness. Old habit."

Spock looked at him pointedly. "Old?"

"Yeah, I kind of used to be a police detective."

"I see." Spock did that non-smile of his, making his eyes and the corners of his mouth crease ever so slightly, his eyes bright with humor. "And I did not say that your line of questioning was rude, I merely said that it was direct. To my way of thinking the two are not synonymous." If he didn't know any better, Jim would say that the man was laughing at him; he found he quite enjoyed the sensation. "I myself am predisposed to being curious. In fact, if you would indulge me, I have a personal query of my own."

Jim grinned; turnabout was fair play and all that. "Fire away."

"What is your name?"

Jim blanched, suddenly remembering his manners. He was sure that had the tables been turned, Spock would have immediately introduced himself as part of setting Jim at ease. He hoped the man wasn't judging him too harshly by all the polite rules of society he was undoubtedly breaking.

"James Kirk. Everyone calls me Jim though."

Spock nodded. "Mine is Spock Grayson." Jim nodded and smiled as if he were learning that for the first time. Another lie. "And what is your present occupation, Mr. Kirk?"

Oh _hell_ no. "You're kidding me, right? I saved your life today; if that doesn't put us on a first name basis then I don't know what will. Call me Jim."

Spock's eyes glimmered with with an emotion that he couldn't or wouldn't show on his face. "All right; Jim." God, that sounded so good. "Then in that case I think it's appropriate for you to call me Spock."

Jim grinned. "Excellent."

"So what do you do, Jim?"

"Nothing at the moment; I just wander about mostly." He had the grace to look slightly sheepish.

Spock sipped his tea, looked at Jim closely as if wishing to impress his words closely. "You do not need to say it as if it is something to be ashamed of. I too am curently without employment." Jim had to strain to hear it, but he detected a resigned bitterness behind those words, understood why. "As such, I also devote much of my time to wandering."

"Where to?"

Spock tilted his head, thinking. "I find the Park to be especially pleasing and have explored there numerous times. The Golden Gate Bridge, as you are now aware, is another frequented location of mine, as are other various sights around the city. I also drive most days to the place where my mother is buried."

So Spock was still himself when he went to Amanda's grave; good to know. "That's very dutiful of you." Jim saw the opportunity to dig, took it. "Have you ever been to the Legion of Honor?"

Spock looked at him curiously for a moment, then responded. "I have driven past it many times but have not had the privilege of visiting the interior of that structure. It looks very appealing from the road, however."

Spock had no memory of ever visiting there? Curiouser and curiouser. "How about Ocean Beach?"

"Unfortunately no." Spock drained the last of his tea and positioned himself so he could get a better look at Jim without craning his neck. "May I ask you another question?" Jim nodded. "Where is my vehicle presently located?"

"It's just outside; I used it to drive us back. Luckily you had left your keys in the ignition; they're over by the door, by the way." He had kind of thrown them down when he'd entered; they were now resting in a silver heap on the floor. "The car interior might be a bit damp, sorry about that."

Spock elegantly waved a hand as if to dismiss the thought. "An apology is unnecessary, as it is my fault that the incident occurred in the first place. I am sure that any damage to it will be minimal."

Jim's eyes widened. "But it's a Jag."

Spock's eyes actually twinkled, damn him. "That does not particularly concern me. I hope you enjoyed driving it."

_Enjoyed?_ Jim had been so panicked he could have been driving a spaceship and he wouldn't have noticed. A fact he now regretted; I mean, come on, he had been driving a _Jag_.

"Where had you been, Jim, just before my accident? I assume that you had a motive in driving out to the Point that afternoon."

Jim took a breath, smiled, lied again. "I'm a professional wanderer, remember? I was there to watch the sunset."

"A laudable activity. But I believe the sun was not due to set for some time before my accident occurred."

Jim smiled. "I wanted to beat the crowds." Yeah right; they were probably the only ones who had visited there the whole evening. He could tell somehow that Spock sensed that he was not being completely truthful, but apparently the man was too polite to push the issue. "I am very fortunate that you were doing so; thank you. And for bringing me here as well." Spock rested his tea on the coffee table, looked around the apartment. "May I ask another personal query?"

Jim smiled. "Anything, Spock. You don't need my permission for that."

Something in Spock's demeanor seemed pleased to hear that. "Do you live here alone?"

"Yep." Spock grew still, cold; it was an amazing transition to witness. At first Jim thought the answer had upset him, until he looked over and saw a film of grey had settled over Spock's once brilliant eyes, dulling them to a much cooler brown than before.

"A person should not live alone."

Jim watched him warily, intent on studying his expression. "Some people like it just fine. It's good enough for me, for starters."

"It is unnatural."

Jim sensed this was not the Spock that he knew, therefore did not get riled up in the slightest. Was this Amanda speaking, then? "What is unnatural about it? What makes you dislike it?"

Spock did not answer. Then suddenly, like a light flashing on inside, Spock seemed to flow back into his body. His eyes focused on Jim again, shining with the same warm spirit and intelligence they had previously possessed. Yes, he could see now that this was the real Spock. It was really quite creepy, the change, despite his attraction to the man.

"I think you should know that I am currently in a relationship, Jim; I suppose that could be attributed to my disinclination to be alone."

"Ah." Jim played dumb, about both the strange moment that had just occurred and about knowing that Spock was with Pike. "She'll be worried about where you are then."

"He."

Jim pretended that he was not already aware of this. Feigning surprise was not too difficult however; he was a bit shocked to see a straitlaced man like Spock be so open on the subject, and to a new acquaintance no less. "Ah."

Spock cocked an eyebrow. "This is not shocking to you?"

"Hardly." He gave a tiny smirk, amused at Spock's face; the man almost looked disappointed. "Did you want it to be?"

"No, not particularly. But I still assumed that announcing my homosexuality to you would be somewhat surprising."

"Please, nothing related to sex surprises me. You're looking at a man who's been called omnisexual on more than one occasion, and they were only half joking. So the idea of you being queer? Not all that shocking, actually." He grinned provocatively.

And then his mind caught up with what his mouth had just said and he almost died. Dammit! Sexual promiscuity was probably _not_ something to boast about during his first conversation with a sophisticated man he was desperately trying to impress. Even if the man happened to be gay. But Spock seemed intrigued instead of repulsed. "Fascinating." He said it deeply while arching his brow again, a hint of sensuality behind the gaze, and it made something inside of Jim come undone.

With any other person he was interested in, this moment would be punctuated by Jim pouncing, making a move that hopefully triggered a series of events that led to tangled limbs and murmured obscenities and heat and friction and sweet release. But as this wasn't just any person and the situation was hopelessly convoluted, sex was completely out of the question. Jim forced himself to be good and somewhat professional and desperately searched for something else, _anything_ else, to talk about.

"Um, not that I'm not flattered, but why tell me such a thing?"

Something in Spock's gaze softened. "Although we have just barely met, I feel somehow that I can trust you."

Jim smiled softly, touched. "Glad to hear it." He set his mug on the coffee table and stayed leaning forward, removing more of the space between them. "Has this ever happened to you before?"

" 'This' specifically referring to..."

"Falling into the Bay."

For some intriguing reason, the word falling unsettled Spock, but once the sentence was completed he visibly relaxed again. It made Jim wonder where Spock had thought he had been going with that sentence. Falling for someone? Falling in love? He didn't dare ask.

"I can honestly say that I have never before participated in such an adventure." Spock's voice was open; if such thoughts had entered his mind, he certainly wasn't showing them.

Jim smiled. "It's my first time too." Simultaneously they both did their own versions of a grin. Jim's was wide and open, a bright morning sunrise; Spock's was small and contained, a sunrise behind silver clouds; less visible but no less captivating. And Jim could have sworn in that moment, seated beside the fire, that something electric and undeniable passed between them.

Flustered, Jim hurried to cover up his emotions by grabbing Spock's mug, hoping to busy himself with refilling it and lessen the tension in the room. But Spock reached for it at the same time, perhaps to do the same thing; their fingers collided, hesitated, remained touching. They stared at one another, caught up in the jolt of emotions that seemed to be igniting and building between them.

It was then that the phone rang, startling them both. "Um, I'd better answer that," Jim said, reluctant to pull away. At last he did, leaving the mug in Spock's grasp, the bright brown eyes watching him get up. He swore he could feel them still upon him as he entered the bedroom, closed the door behind him and reached down to grab the phone. "Hello?"

"Jim, please tell me you know where Spock is, because I am slowly going insane."

Shit, Pike. It hadn't even occurred to him that Pike should have been contacted, that Spock's disappearance would have caused him to panic. Or that his panic would be just as great, perhaps greater, than what Jim had experienced, seeing as Pike was the one in an actual long-term relationship with the man and he was just suffering through a stupid infatuation. Jim sunk down into the bed, lowered his voice as much as he could while still being audible over the phone. "He's here. He's safe."

"Thank God." The relief in Pike's voice was evident. "What happened?"

"He jumped into the Bay this afternoon." No sense in sparing the man the truth.

A pause; the silence was deafening. "Hello?"

"Sorry, I'm just processing it. Is he all right?"

"Yes, he's fine, not a scratch on him. Look, this is very important. He doesn't remember what happened; I told him he fell in accidentally and I'd suggest you do the same."

"Oh God, I can't believe it's actually happening, just as I'd feared. He's degrading too fast...but he's the same age, it makes perfect sense." Pike sounded despondent, murmuring to himself and seeming to ignore Jim's presence on the phone."

"The same age? What the hell are you talking about?"

"The same age as Amanda. His mother. She was fifty when she drowned herself in the Bay, and Spock turned fifty this year. I was afraid there might be a connection, but hoped I was just being paranoid. It all points to her now though, doesn't it?"

Jim was openly gaping, though Pike couldn't see that over the phone. "You know about Amanda?"

"Of course I do. Or rather, what little Spock has told me about her."

Jim's eyes narrowed, his breath hitched. "Goddamn it, Pike, you've been holding out on me. You knew all about his past and decided not to tell me one damn thing? What are you trying to pull?"

"Nothing, I swear it Jim. I didn't know for sure who it was that might be possessing him; his father and stepmother were also good candidates for ikiryo, better in fact as they are Japanese. I just wanted to find out what you could learn on your own, where he might lead you, see if you could prove or disprove the theory. So you learned about Amanda?"

Jim quickly spilled to Pike a condensed version of all that his investigations had uncovered, the information he had learned from the many people he had spoken to, and his theories. He even told him about Amanda taking over Spock for a moment in the living room, though he conveniently left out the whole undressing Spock thing; luckily Pike never asked. By the time he was finished Pike sounded mighty impressed.

"It's amazing how much you've uncovered, Jim. They were right when they said you were the best."

Sweet talking from Pike didn't make up for keeping him in the dark, not by a long shot. Even if the sweet talking was absolutely true. "Look, I probaby shouldn't leave him for too long. I'll make sure he gets back to you in one piece." As he said his goodbyes and hung up the phone, Jim tried not to think too hard about what kind of intimate greeting Spock would get from Pike on his return, what they were like when they were alone together; it was simply not helpful. So instead he returned to the living room to see if Spock wanted some more tea and conversation.

The living room was completely empty.

Jim felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. He immediately looked over to the kitchen; Spock's clothes were gone, the robe discarded on a chair and folded neatly. He looked to the door; the keys were missing from where he had tossed them onto the floor. Jim raced to the door and yanked it open, stood in the doorway and saw no trace of a Jaguar in the parking spaces. Gone. Spock was gone. Without even saying goodbye.

It hurt more that it reasonably should have. Jim slammed the door and went to collapse back onto the couch, upset. He ran a hand through his hair and gave himself over to worrying.

Had Spock left so suddenly because Jim had done something unspeakably wrong? Or had the situation just become so weird that he'd taken the first opportunity he could to escape? It was the omnisexual comment that had done it, he just knew it. Was Spock okay to drive? Would he make it back to his apartment in one piece like Jim had promised? The man was a mess, and the idea of him operating a motorized vehicle, even if he had done so with this spirit in him for the past two weeks, made Jim freak out a little. After all, he had already tried once to kill himself today; what if he just drove right off of a pier or something on his way home? But Jim didn't dare call Pike to confirm a safe return; instead he just sat there in front of the fire and brooded.

He had realized something at the Point, when Spock had thrown himself off the dock and into the Bay. Just how much of a danger Spock was to himself, how truly fragile the situation with him really was. The man was like a butterfly, strong and beautiful but able to be crushed at any moment by forces beyond his control. He needed someone to look out for him.

And Jim had decided right then and there—hopelessly, desperately, doggedly, obsessively—that he was going to be that someone.

::

Author's Notes:

• Two different research sources pointed out that in the movie Madeline takes the long way to get to the Point. Not sure the significance of that, other then the meandering, but I included it too.

• I have always wanted to see the Golden Gate from the angle it is in the movie; I've driven over and past it but didn't go to the Point. And it was impossible on my most recent trip without a car. So I used what research I could, and the movie of course. Ditto for the fort.

• The stairs at the dock? Completely fake, made for the movie and removed after (also on a soundstage.) Sad.

• The movie never has us watch Scottie undress Madeline, because Hitch was a genius and implied so much creepy intimate stalkeriness just from seeing the clothes in the kitchen and Madeline under the covers naked. But as I am telling my story from Jim's POV, I felt it needed to be included, though I tried to keep it tasteful a la Hitch. Oh poor Jim, I do torture you so in this fic.

• Scotty's red robe in the movie really does have blue and yellow dots on it! That knowledge made me ridiculously happy, and I had to include it. Yes, I'm so sure Edith Head totes had my fic in mind when she created her designs, hah. ;)

• The idea of Spock not knowing what a tea bag was (rich plus buys real green tea from real Japanese stores) stuck in my head and refused to leave. Thus is in the fic. (And yes, I actually researched tea to figure out Spock would normally take his. We are talking about _friggin'_ _Tea_. I am the biggest research dork that ever dorked.)

• The line about Spock being this creature curled up in front of the fire was inspired by the screenplay; in it is a description of the scene that reads "And Scottie is fascinated by this thing curled up before his fire." It described things so fantastically and matched one of my motifs so beautifully, so I stole with both hands. Bad me?

• I truly do believe Chris Pine is like a baby Brando; the raw talent, the gravitas, the presence. I would kill TPTB if they did it, but if they ever decided to remake On the Waterfront, Chris is the only one I could see playing the Brando role and doing the original an iota of justice. So of course, in including a trio of characters this version of Jim might pattern himself after, Brando has to be included. So let it be written, so let it be done. :D

• The falling bit was also in the original screenplay, but kind of scrapped in the movie. I liked it and included it anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

Despite his impulses to the contrary, Jim managed to wait until morning to retrieve his car from the scene of Spock's attempted suicide. One, he knew he needed more sleep than the nap he had gotten after pulling the man from the Bay; driving while drowsy was never a sound plan. And two, he suspected that once he retrieved his car he would just drive it straight to the Brocklebank and camp out there in his sedan all night; sleep be damned until he saw Spock emerge alive and whole and none the worse for wear. And really, that would be of no help to anybody. So as hard as it was, he selected the best option available to him and headed for bed.

Jim threw on his pajamas and climbed under the covers, on the side of the bed that Spock had vacated not so long ago. He pulled the now dry bedding around him; for a disturbing moment he realized a part of him was trying to pick out Spock's scent over the familiar smell of laundry detergent, and quickly batted the impulse away. But as much as he hated to admit it to himself, knowing that the man had been sleeping in these same sheets gave him a ridiculous amount of pleasure; how _much_ pleasure he refused to contemplate further. In spite of the anxiety he felt over Spock and the strangeness of everything that had occurred, his mind soon succumbed to the warmth and darkness of the room and he managed to drift off to sleep.

He awoke the next morning feeling more refreshed and awake than he had in ages. It was a welcome yet baffling feeling, and one he could not account for until the reason finally hit him like a ton of bricks and shocked him out of his drowsiness: not once last night had the nightmare occurred, the one that had stalked his sleep for weeks without fail ever since the accident. For the first time in months, his mind had let him sleep completely undisturbed.

He flashed back to the previous night, to the nap he had taken after he had put Spock to bed. No nightmares had haunted him then either, he'd just been too worried and distracted to notice. How long had this been going on? He'd had the nightmare the previous night, same as always, so it had to have been within the past twenty-four hours. Was it due to having a case again, one that interested and intrigued him and that he was maddeningly near to solving? Or was it just time healing all wounds and naturally causing the constant nightmares to fade? Nothing had really changed to merit such a starting difference in his sleep patterns, though. Nothing except...except Spock. In the last twenty-four hours he had finally met him face to face and talked with him; was it somehow connected to that? It was too soon to tell, but to Jim the timing seemed too peculiar to just be mere coincidence.

As soon as he could he got dressed and downed some coffee and had a taxi take him back out to the Point. Once he had his car back he headed straight to the Brocklebank, as he had been itching to do since last night, and parked so he could easily watch the door for any sign of Spock. At last the familiar figure emerged, looking in decent spirits and of sound mind; Jim allowed himself to breathe a little easier. Today the man was clad in a black suit, fedora, and scarf, with a gorgeous long white coat that complimented his gray hair perfectly. He exited the courtyard in his Jaguar and, as always, Jim trailed along behind, determined to protect the man from the shadows in case he went all suicidal again.

Instead of their normal route to the flower shop Spock turned north, then headed west on Sacramento. They were only on the road for a short time until the Jaguar turned again, drove a block or two, and then turned north yet again, only to head east a ways, and once more north.

They went in spiralling circles around the streets of Nob and Russian Hills until Jim practically felt dizzy. The Jaguar was cruising as a steady pace, and in spite of the bizarre twists and turns to its route was showing no other symptoms of erratic behavior. Jim was sure Spock could not sense he was being tailed, therefore was not trying to shake him off, so what the hell was going on? He hoped the man knew what he was doing and ended this crazy driving game soon; seriously, when it came to Spock, he could do with a little _less_ mystery for once.

After driving on Leavenworth for a ways, Alcatraz looming before them, Spock turned right onto Lombard. Jim turned right as well and followed down the hill. For a moment the crooked part of Lombard was visible in his rear view mirror, its red brick and green foliage soon replaced by the grey of the asphalt. But Jim didn't notice; he was busy being absolutely flabbergasted, his attention completely focused on the green car in front of him. He took a big swallow, scarcely believing it.

Spock had ended up in front of Jim's apartment.

He watched in shock as Spock parked and exited the Jaguar, his white coat flapping, and headed up the small flight of steps and onto the small alcove that made up the front porch. He studied the giant red door before him on the left and hesitated a moment, then looked over at the doorbell and letter box located straight ahead. A hand moved to the pocket of his coat and pulled out an envelope, which Spock then proceeded to work into the slot of the box.

Spock had been driving in maddening circles in order to find him. It all had been done for him.

Jim dashed out of the car and over to the front door at lightning speed, pausing at the foot of the steps. "I'm guessing that's for me?" He tried to keep the tone of his voice neutral, detached, sure that at any moment some part of him would show his hand and accidentally blow the cover off of how he really felt.

Spock looked over to him, surprised, and turned to face him. "Mr. Kirk...Jim. It is remarkably pleasing to see you again, especially after the events of yesterday."

"Same to you." Jim shoved his hands in his pockets, looked up nervously into Spock's placid yet warm eyes. The words came pouring out. "Look, I'm sorry for whatever I did that made you run off like that. I know I come off a little strong sometimes; I'm sorry if it offended you."

Something in Spock's gaze softened, considering him, and he stepped forward. "Think nothing of it; it is I who should be offering the apology. Please believe me when I say that my hasty departure was not a reflection upon you, but my own embarrassment over the situation. Such feelings, however, do not justify my rudeness in leaving you that way." He looked past Jim to something in the distance. "This morning I was able to recall the coldness of the water and the pull of the current as you carried me back to shore. I imagine that the burden of rescuing me from the water must have been very great."

Jim's eyes lit up, along with his smile. "No, not at all, I enjoyed..." Oh damn it, _enjoyed_? Yeah, that did not sound creepy _at all_. Spock looked back at him as Jim hurried to correct himself. "I mean, I was glad to do it, to save you, I didn't mind." Spock was smiling his tiny smile, so apparently the poor choice of words hadn't bothered him. "So has your memory of what happened yesterday come back then?"

Spock shook his head. "Unfortunately no. Other than those few sensations of being in the water, I can recall no more at this time."

"Ah. Well, I'm sure it will all come back to you eventually." The look on Spock's face darkened a little, suggesting that perhaps he was not as optimistic on that score. Jim hurriedly switched topics. "Well, I guess I'll get my mail then." He flashed a comforting smile and entered his house to grab the letter from the basket beneath the mail slot, afraid to loiter in case Spock used the opportunity to vanish again. He needn't have worried; when he returned to the door he could see that Spock had not budged in inch from his spot on the stoop.

Spock motioned to the envelope. "I wanted to properly convey my thanks and apologies for the situation, but did not have a mailing address to which I could send you a note," he said as Jim ripped the letter open and began devouring the words. "So I decided to try to locate your residence instead. I remembered Coit Tower from your window, and used it as a reference point to return here."

God bless Coit Tower. Jim grinned at something written in the note, looked back up at Spock. "You sound so apologetic; anyone reading this would think that I'd been forced to carry you all the way to my apartment on my back or something. Rescuing you wasn't that big of a burden, trust me."

Spock shrugged. "I am simply acknowledging your difficulties. And your kindness. Unfortunately such a hastily written letter cannot truly convey the depth of my gratitude."

Jim looked at him pointedly. "I think as the recipient _I'm_ the one who gets the final say in how sorry you sound and if your letter was well written. Trust me, you did fine." He flashed a knowing smile. "Or if you prefer, _perfectly satisfactory_." He was pleased to see Spock's eyes flash a bit of humor back at him, obviously getting the reference. Jim went back to reading the letter, looking up when he was done and grinning. "I hope so, too." When Spock arched a quizzical brow at him he clarified. "That we'll meet again someday, I mean." He waved the letter around a bit as proof. "You wrote that down in here, that you hoped to see me again."

"I recall the words I wrote, Jim. But as I believe we are currently together and conversing, my desire to see you again has already been fulfilled." Spock tipped his hat at Jim, whose face fell slightly. Did that mean that all of this—writing the letter, finding his house, dropping it off—was just cool politeness, with no more emotion attached to it than simply acknowledging a favor from a stranger? Did Spock mean that after today, he didn't plan on ever seeing him again? Jim wasn't sure he could handle that. "I do not wish to take up any more of your valuable time. Goodbye, Jim, and thank you again." And with that, Spock looked at him once more and turned to head back to his car.

Jim knew he should say goodbye back, as it was the only polite thing to so, but he couldn't bear to get the words out. He didn't want to say goodbye to this man, ever. Impulsively he flew off the step and over to the car. The Jaguar had sprung to life, its engine purring, and Spock was looking out towards the road, preparing to back the car up. Seeing Jim careening over to his door caused him to raise both eyebrows in surprise. He rolled the window down and rested his arm on the ledge, leaning his head out to find himself staring into Jim's overbright eyes.

"Are you doing anything important today?" The words fumbled out, desperate to be said.

Spock's eyes flicked down as he thought things over, then flicked back up and retrained themselves on Jim. "Not particularly. I have one or two places I need to visit, but other than that my day is relatively empty of events. After attending to certain matters I intend to drive to whatever location suits my mood at that particular moment and spend the remainder of my day there."

Jim couldn't help but crack a grin. "So you're saying you're going to spend most of the day wandering, then?"

Spock looked at him, obviously surprised; then his eyes grew warmer, almost humorous. "I suppose that is the succinct term for it. And if I am not mistaken, I believe you stated during our previous encounter that it is your current occupation."

Jim smiled, pleased that Spock had remembered his comment from last night and, yeah, was even teasing him a little about it. It felt fantastic, actually; it didn't even matter that the comment tied back to the idea of him being a bum with no job. "You have an excellent memory. I'm willing to take on an apprentice, if you'd like to apply for the position."

Spock seemed to tense up slightly. "You are inferring that you desire me to wander with you." It was not phrased as a question.

Jim was pretty sure that every emotion he felt for Spock and his desire to spend the day with him—hell, let's be honest, to spend the rest of his _life_ with him, but he'd settle at the moment for a day—was nakedly on display in his eyes, his face. His cover surely blown, he abandoned trying to play coy, desperate to get Spock to agree. "Yeah, pretty much. But I'm not inferring, I'm _asking_. Directly. If you will go wandering with me."

Spock stilled, staring at him. "If I am not mistaken, one must be alone in order to effectively wander; two or more individuals traveling together implies an intended destination. Therefore the concept of two people such as ourselves possessing the ability to wander together is highly illogical."

Jim suspected that Spock was trying to bombard him with an onslaught of words and bizarre logic in order to dodge answering the question; while he enjoyed listening to the way Spock worded things he wasn't having any of it. He casually leaned against the car and scrunched his face in fake contemplation, pretending to be seriously considering what Spock had said. Then he shook his head and burst into a lazy smile.

"Nope, not buying it, sorry. Besides, if I remember correctly you hate to be alone; you should be welcoming an offer for my company instead of completely rejecting it. Unless, of course, being coerced into spending the day with _me_ seems completely repulsive to you." He shifted expertly to the face that Bones said gave him gigantic puppy dog eyes and, as a result, was damned annoying; Since Spock had never seen it before and would not be as immune to its powers, Jim hoped it would cause the man to cave in like a coal mine.

Spock stared at him for a long moment, then looked away. "I find it highly unlikely that anyone could find spending the day with you repulsive, Jim. Whether or not there is coercion involved to accomplish this is completely irrelevant."

Jim beamed; the softness of that response was encouraging. "Well, if that's the case..." He leaned down to position his face closer to Spock's, his blue eyes ardent, imploring. "Please, Spock. Wander with me."

Spock's eyes suddenly flicked back over to look at him. God, his eyes. It was like watching a floodgate pour open, and the only view of the desolation was though a pair of portholes—tiny, gorgeous, brown-colored portholes. So many emotions seemed to suddenly flutter past them that before Jim could pin down a name for one, it was gone, replaced by another just as confusing. The moment stretched out into what felt like an eternity as Jim waited to hear what Spock would decide.

At last the man's eyes settled onto one emotion, melting into something that could only be labeled as _want_. It was a bewitching expression that no one would ever mistake for mere politeness, and it almost made Jim gasp at its intensity.

"All right, Jim. I will gladly wander with you." Spock said it softly, like a whispered prayer.

Jim feel suddenly punch-drunk with happiness. A wide grin stretched across his face, and he was sure he would burst from the effort it took to keep it contained there. "Glad to hear it. Your car?" Spock nodded. Jim began heading around to the other side of the car, remembered his unlocked apartment, turned to look back at him. "Be right back; don't you dare leave me."

"I will not," Spock promised, the look that made Jim feel a little bit breathless still in place. Jim nodded and dashed back to the red door, locking it, and returned once more to the Jaguar. He settled into the passenger seat and looked over to Spock expectantly. "So, where did you want to head to first?"

Spock paused a moment, then gazed over at him. The look was gone now, replaced by a familiar austere calmness; Jim missed it already. "It might sound a bit macabre, but would it make you uncomfortable if the first destination for our outing was to a cemetery? It is a routine trip for me, and one I am disinclined to skip despite the changing circumstances."

Jim nodded in understanding, pretending that the realization of the place's significance was just dawning on him. "Your mother, you mean. You mentioned before that you often go and visit her."

Spock nodded back. "Correct. But I would understand if the idea of such a journey was unpalatable to you."

Jim grinned to put him at ease. "Well, to be honest I think it's a bit early in our relationship for me to be meeting your mother. But if it's what you want then I'm more than happy to do it."

Jim was sure that he had overtipped his hand with that comment; he braced himself for impending rejection and a polite demand that he exit the car. But, amazingly, Spock did not seem to care. Instead he looked over at Jim and smiled that tiny smile of his, hidden everywhere but his eyes. "I am sure she will be pleased to meet you as well."

Spock drove, leading them from place to place. Since Jim was usually the one in the the driver's seat, literally and figuratively, it was an odd but not unpleasant feeling. Their first stop was to the flower shop; Jim waited in the car while Spock picked up the familiar white bouquet. On the long drive to Cypress Lawn he studied Spock's profile, so tantalizingly near, as covertly as he could. Some type of classical music trickled from the radio, and to Jim's amazement it did not make him want to rip his ears off in frustration.

They arrived at the cemetery, and after parking the Jaguar Spock grabbed his normal accoutrements from the backseat. Jim managed to snag the blanket, deaf to Spock's insistence that he could carry everything himself. After walking over to the headstone, which Jim pretended he had never seen before, Spock gently took the blanket from him and set it down, beginning his normal preparations. It was fascinating, and somewhat hypnotic, to watch everything from such a close vantage point instead of lurking behind a tree in the distance somewhere. His eyes fixated on Spock's delicate hands—long, pale, slender, beautiful—as he used them to pour the water and set out the flowers and light the incense and finally let them rest at the center of his forehead. As Jim watched the familiar motions, a dozen needling questions about the ritual buzzed in his head but remained unasked.

Spock did not meditate in front of the grave for as long as he normally did, all too soon sweeping up the objects and quickly returning them back into the black bag. They both sat there for a moment in front of the tombstone, the wind blowing gently around them, the cemetery settling once again into a peaceful stillness. Jim looked over and noticed for the first time that Spock looked slightly not himself. His eyes appeared hazy and unfocused, his posture far too severe. Jim looked closer; yes, his eyes had that cloudy grey cover over them, similar to the night before. It wasn't strong, but it was there and unnervingly creepy.

Jim wondered if coming to the cemetery accidentally triggered something, started a chain of events that allowed Amanda to gain control over Spock's body. It would explain why he did not mention going to the Legion or the beach after coming here; it was Amanda going to those places, not Spock. An Amanda that was desperate enough for her son to return to her that she would throw his body off a dock in an attempt to kill him. Jim didn't know if some part of Spock was fighting to prevent her from doing this, but if so he was doing an abysmal job of it so far; that left it to Jim to find a way to to help him. Desperate to break Amanda's grip but afraid of going overboard—kissing the man soundly back into consciousness came to mind, for example, but was quickly rejected—Jim decided to ask one of the questions bouncing around in his brain, to see if getting him to talk would help.

"Hey Spock? If it's not too personal a question, what's the significance of the last line on your mother's tombstone?"

Spock did not answer at first; at last his words came out sluggishly, in a deep timber slightly similar to Spock's normal speech, but not nearly enough to placate Jim. "It is from Madama Butterfly. Are you aware of what it translates to in English?"

"With unalterable faith I shall wait for him," he said without any hesitation, remembering his notes and a certain dimly lit Italian restaurant.

Spock gaze grew clearer, sharper, some of the grey slipping. "Impressive. I was not aware that you had an interest in opera, Jim."

Jim almost gaped at his mistake, one that even the dumbest of rookie cops on their first undercover sting operation wouldn't make. Damn it all to hell! He was too distracted, had too many details to remember and lie about while he kept one part of his brain trained on Spock like a hawk and held back his actual emotions for the man with the other. Instead of panicking, he smiled and tried to salvage the mess he was making of the situation.

"Not really; truth be known I'm actually more of a jazz man. I just heard the translation once from a friend who is, and for some reason the phrase managed to stick in my brain." Well, that wasn't _technically_ a lie. "I've never actually seen Madame Butterfly, I don't even know what it's about really."

Spock looked at him closely, an inquisitive look in his eyes, then nodded slowly, accepting his answer. "I see. The translation you were given is acceptable. Would it be of interest to you if I told you part of the story, in order to understand the context of the words and why they were deemed an appropriate selection for my mother's epitaph?"

As he spoke, Jim could see Spock's eyes shift to a much purer brown and begin to shine with a greater brilliance. It was as if someone had kicked up the silt in a pond and muddied the water, but was now allowing the particles to settle back down and return the water to its previously clear state. Perhaps by having to formulate his thoughts through speech, Spock was regaining control. Hoping this was the case, Jim nodded quickly; hell, Spock could offer to explain the theory of relativity to him at this point and he'd gladly say yes, whatever helped the man keep his grip on reality.

Spock returned the nod and began. "It is from an aria sung by Butterfly, the young heroine of the opera. At this point in the story she has been waiting for years for her American husband, Pinkerton, to return to her in Japan. Her servant warns her that such a thing may never happen and that his abandonment of her is likely. However Butterfly is adamant that such an thing is illogical, insisting that American men do not throw off their wives when they tire of them as Japanese men do." Spock's expression showed he was quite aware of the irony in that statement. "She sings about how one beautiful day, un bel di, his ship will appear on the horizon, that he will ascend the hill to meet her and will once again call out her name. Her cry of unwavering faith and devotion is the last line of the aria, and are the words written on the headstone."

Jim's looked at Spock and saw a hint of unease there. "_Was_ her faith in vain?" He wasn't sure if he actually meant to refer to Butterfly or Amanda in asking that. Both, he decided.

Spock looked off into the distance. "Yes and no. The ship comes as she described, carrying her husband—but he has not undertaken the journey in order to see her again. Instead he comes accompanied by his American wife to take the son he conceived with Butterfly, whom she had previously concealed from his knowledge, back to America to raise. In his shame for what he has done to her he cannot face her himself, and in his cowardice sends his wife in his stead. Butterfly is devastated upon learning the truth, agrees to the arrangement, and the opera concludes with her commiting suicide and dying onstage, Pinkerton coming to her at last and crying out her name."

"So after her dreams are shattered beyond repair, she offs herself rather than suffer the humiliation and loss." The parallels to Amanda's own tragic life were thick enough to choke on.

"That is another way to describe it, yes. Butterfly is young, in love, and inexperienced with the world. Her idealistic naivete of the situation and and her misguided notions of love and honor prove to be her fatal downfall."

Another sad story; could anything surrounding Spock _not_ be laced with tragedy somehow? Jim was beginning to seriously doubt it. "So what does the story of Madame Butterfly have to do with your mother's grave?" Jim already guessed, but he wanted to hear it from Spock. And anyway, he wasn't supposed to know the truth; revealing that he did would make for an awkward conversation.

Spock looked up at the words on the headstone. "My mother experienced similar circumstances. She too had a child, which was in its youth taken from her by the father to his home country. And she too chose to commit suicide over this." Spock did not infer that he was that child; he did not need to.

"My father learned of her death in Japan, made the funeral arrangements for her and settled her affairs. We never spoke of it, but I suspect that the similarity of their respective stories and my mother's immense fascination with opera caused my father to choose those words for her gravestone."

Spock suddenly looked down at the flowers, as if their white petals contained the answers to secrets he was desperate to know. "In traditional stories the hero is meant to save the heroine, but in Madame Butterfly he only succeeds in destroying her. Sometimes I wonder how heavily my father felt the burden of inflicting the same destruction upon my mother."

Jim stared at Spock. His voice was heartbreakingly soft but clear and steady, and all the ghostly traces in his eyes that had unnerved Jim before were long gone. Maybe making Spock talk about Amanda and his feelings about their altered lives _was_ helping to break her possession of him; Jim hoped so. He was confused, yet touched, that Spock was willing to be so open with him. His desire to know this man, _really_ know him, for reasons completely unrelated to the case at hand, made him push harder for more information.

"How old were you when you left for Japan? Was it tough, adjusting?"

Spock took a moment to consider his answer, then spoke. "I was nine years old at the time of our departure. I had learned to speak fluent Japanese from my father but my skills in writing were woefully deficient. I was also inexperienced in many of the social mannerisms and intricacies of the Japanese culture. I had much to learn when I arrived there in order to properly assimilate."

"What were the kids like? Were they nice to you?" God, he sounded like his mother all of a sudden. He noticed some tension creep in around Spock's eyes and body, but other than that there was no difference in the man's expression.

"Nice has variable definitions. If you mean did they make the transition of moving from America to Japan a pleasant one, the answer is no. But I learned to adjust despite this obstacle."

The idea of a young Spock being picked on and isolated—and that was what Spock was inferring in the tightness of his features and the sharpness in his posture, he was sure of it—was tough for Jim to swallow. "When and why did you finally return to the states?"

Spock seemed to relax slightly; apparently this line of questioning was easier for him to handle. "After my father passed away, I inherited the company and became responsible for overseeing its daily operations. I had been well trained by my father since adolescence in how to run the business, so assuming this responsibility was not difficult. As I had never fully assimilated to life in Japan, after things in the company stabilized I decided to leave the Japanese side of the company to a man I trusted and returned here, making San Francisco once again the basis of my life and my business. This change occured almost two decades ago."

"And things were better for you over here?"

"Yes, at first. I found the Japanese living in the city to be very hospitable; many of them had known my father and were pleased to form a new connection with his grown son. My father had been involved in the development of the Japanese Tea Garden, among other things, and I resumed our family's connection to those places. My mother had already passed away by the time I returned, but I managed to develop many other aquaintances in the city." Suddently a cloud seemed to pass over his face, darkening his features and making him look every day of his fifty years of age.

"What? What's wrong?" Jim didn't understand how such a seemingly harmless topic could take such a sudden turn, wanted to remedy the situation if possible.

Spock didn't answer him at first, just stared off into nothing. "Then Pearl Harbor happened, and Roosevelt's issuing of Order 9066." He went on with his narrative as if he hadn't heard Jim at all. "I received word from a trusted associate to quickly do whatever it took to protect my assets, that trouble was coming for all of us of Japanese descent. I quickly forged a business transaction with the head captain of my company, who had no Japanese blood and whom I trusted implicitly. This made him an almost equal business partner in the company and allowed him to run it in my absence. A day or two after this was completed, I was hauled away by the government for questioning about possible anti-American activities in my company. Because of my negotiation with my new partner, my business was not sold off and most of my assets were protected; in that I was more fortunate than most. After the interrogation period ended, I was shipped off to a camp for Japanese citizens living in the Bay area and waited out the end of the war there." He meant Topaz; Spock had indeed been sent there just as Uhura had speculated.

"What was it like there?"

Spock shook his head. "I can not properly describe it to you. Dust and despair, that is what I remember most. It was there that I learned how truly fragile my life could be, that in an instant everything I prized could be taken from me—my possesions, my freedom, my pride. I also experienced a bitter realization that no matter which part of myself I chose to embrace, the American or the Japanese, that who and what I was would never be fully accepted by either world. It was a difficult concept to accept at first, but in time I learned to. I was essential that I did so."

Spock lifted his head to stare up towards the tops of the trees. "I was able to converse with many Bay artists of Japanese ancestry during my time at the camp. One of them said something to me that I shall always remember. He said that if we looked down to focus on the dust and desert lands around us we would sink into despair. But if we kept our eyes trained up, at the mountains and sky, there we would find our salvation. I have pondered the deeper meaning in his words many times since my release."

"And that deeper meaning is..."

Spock looked at him with an almost wry expression. "It has meant different things to me at different moments in my life. I will leave it for you to discover its meaning on your own."

Jim stared at him. The man was kidding, right? No, no he wasn't, dammit. That answer would be a long time in coming then, but Spock obviously didn't know Jim well enough to realize this yet. "Anyway, what happened after the war?"

"I returned to San Francisco and resumed running my company. I developed a deeper relationship with the man I had left to handle my affairs in my absence. And I changed my name."

Finally, the question that had been on Jim's mind forever. "Changed it _to_ Spock."

"For all those of Japanese descent, reassimilating to a normal American life after being viewed as traitors to our country was...difficult. I wanted to experience a rebirth of myself, separate my life from the ashes of all had occurred before. As I felt that I had never been fully accepted into either Japanese or American society, it seemed only logical to choose a first name for myself that sounded foreign to both cultures. And in remembrance of my mother, of her sacrifice, I took her last name as my own. I realize that my method of coping is a bit unusual, but I felt at the time that it was necessary if I was ever going to accept the way my life had unfolded. I still hold no regrets over the decision."

Jim didn't know why Spock felt he had to explain himself; did the man think that _he_ had any room to judge somebody for the decisions they made? Especally after all the hell this man had suffered in his life, that he would begrudge him of whatever it took to move on? Jim couldn't imagine denying him anything, and most certainly not that.

Without warning, Spock suddenly stood and picked up his black bag, turning to look down at Jim. "I think we should resume our wanderings." He showed no outward signs that the personal nature of their conversation was distressing him, but Jim suspected otherwise. Then he turned, holding his bag and the faded flowers, and headed back towards the car alone.

"Spock, wait." Jim jumped up and dashed over to the man, reaching out and grasping him by the elbow; Spock stopped abruptly at the pressure. "Thank you. For sharing your life's story with me, for allowing me to come here with you in the first place. I'm not sure why you're revealing all of this to me, but whatever the reason, it means a lot. I just wanted you to know that."

Spock tensed up for a moment, then relaxed again and turned his head to look back at Jim, his head in profile. "As I have stated on our previous encounter, I feel somehow that I can trust you. That trust extends to revealing to you the details of my life, however unpalatable they may be." He continued on to the car, gently pulling away from Jim's grasp. Jim went to fold up the blanket, noting wryly that Spock had made no motion of getting it himself, expecting that Jim would do it; well, that's what he got for making such a big deal about carrying it in the first place. He walked swiftly until he was abreast of Spock, and the two continued on side by side until they reached the car.

They pulled out of the cemetery drive and onto the highway. Jim looked over at Spock, a bit awestruck by all he had been told. This man was being so generous with him, entrusting so much to him, it hardly seemed right to not return the favor. He wanted to show Spock just how much he trusted him in turn. And if it meant sharing his own past so they were on equal ground, so be it.

And amazingly he found he wanted to; he wanted this man to know him better, to feel a connection between them that could only come from the intimacy of sharing confidences. The idea of it seemed right somehow. So nervously, hesitantly, Jim began telling his story.   ::   Author's Notes:

  Story time with Spock, yay! Sad stories, but like Jim cares. Story time with Jim next week! 

• I found a site that listed all the twists and turns Madeline made in driving to Jim's house, with photographic proof from then and nowish. A great resource.

• The line in Vertigo where Scotty says he enjoyed fishing Madeline out and then realizes how wrong that sounds makes me smile every time; had to keep it in.

• "Well I'll get my mail" is in the movie too; I love the way Jimmy Stewart says it all nonchalant, anything but.

• The whole thing about wandering is in the movie too.

• Once I made Spock Japanese, the parallells of the Carlotta and Butterfly storylines were too striking not to be used. So lucky you, you get to put up with my opera fangirling for a bit.

• According to the San Francisco Opera archives, Madame Butterfly _was_ performed that year at the SF opera house on October 10. So perhaps it was the Opera that Pike and Spock attended the first night Jim sees Spock. =) At least in my mind it is.

• Topaz housed all the SF area Japanese; at its height it housed over 9,000 people, making it the fifth largest city in Utah at the time.

• Every account I read of people who were held at Topaz seemed to mention the dust of the desert, so I made sure Spock remembers it too.

• Topaz is a dauting subject; I could easily see myself spending over a year researching it, but obviously I had to reign myself in and not freak out over whether or not I was doing the subject justice. Anyone who wants to read more about Topaz, I suggest starting with the novel "When the Emperor Was Divine" by Julie Otsuka. It is less than 150 pages, has four different points of view, and was invaluable to me in understanding the mindset of someone like Spock. I also plan on posting a monster list of the resources I used once I'm done writing this bohemoth, and will post more links on Topaz at that time.

• The line about looking up to the sky and mountains to find salvation, I was insired to paraphrase from a quote by a real artist who was in Topaz; it just tied in well with everything I was going for. The only sad thing is that the web site doesn't cite the name of the artist or where they got the quote from, boo, so I only have their word to go by that it is a real quote. D: Here is the paragraph I took the line from: "In Topaz, the Japanese-Americans had dust, mud, storms, armed guards and none of the lush surroundings they enjoyed in California. They did have sky and mountains, however. One Topaz artist told his fellow residents that if they looked at the ground they would become depressed, but if they looked up towards the sky and mountains, they would find happiness."

• Benjamin Spock was busy in his work around this time; I don't think Kenpei/Spock necessarily picked out the name deliberately because of him, but perhaps had heard it somewhere, found it intriguing, and remembered it when coming up with a new name for himself. At least, that's _my_ version of how things went down. :)


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

"I just want to let you know that you don't have a monopoly on the whole life screwing you over thing, Spock. My life has been just as messed up as yours. Well, with the exception of the camp thing, I _really_ can't top that. It's probably not a great consolation prize or anything, but I just thought you should know. That I can relate."  Spock shifted his eyes over to him for a moment, then retrained them back on the road. There was curiosity there, and kindness, and a desire to hear what he had to say; the sentiment helped spur him on.

"See, my dad, he got himself killed the day I was born. There was a disaster at the plant he worked at; he managed to save everyone but lost his life in the process." Jim gave a small, bitter laugh. "It's kind of ironic, in a way; he was a big war hero during the first world war, saved a lot of lives and brought a lot of pride to our small town. The trenches couldn't kill him, but some stupid kid making some stupid mistake could. So when he died, I don't know, it turned him into some kind of mythical patron saint of Iowa or something. It was really ridiculous, you have no idea. And my family, we were left to deal with all of that, left to survive somehow in his shadow.

"My mom did the best she could, I know that. Raising two small boys alone on the Iowa plains, I'm sure it was tough, and trust me, with the trouble that Sam and I got into we didn't really make it any easier on her."

Jim paused, trying to figure out the best way to say what was going on in his mind. "I think my mom loved him _too_ much, if that's even possible; too deeply, too intensely, and when he was gone she had nothing left to hold on to. She was never able to be with anybody else, was always working so hard to keep his memory alive so he wouldn't be forgotten. And the whole town and my dad's friends and war buddies encouraged it, the bastards. For so long she forgot to live for herself; even now I sometimes worry that she's still never figured out how.

"We weren't neglected or abused or anything like that; I don't want you getting the wrong idea. My Uncle Frank was a major jerk, but we were always loved by her and we both knew it. She did right by us, taught us to be strong and tenacious in going after what we wanted. I didn't realize it until later, but seeing her get up every goddamned day and live her life taught me what true bravery really was.

"We're still close to her, Sam and I, in our own strange way. But there was always this void, this hole my dad had left behind when he died, and no matter how hard all of us worked to fill it, it just seemed to get bigger and bigger. Ignoring it did nothing to fix it, and talking about it only made it worse. I had to find a way to break free from all of that, the pressure of living in that shadow. So I became the complete opposite of him, this cocky ignorant little hellraiser. I think I thought that if I couldn't fill up that damn hole he had left us, I would try blowing it up instead, see if that worked out any better in erasing it."

Spock looked over at him, curiousity in his eyes. "Did it?"

"No." Jim laughed.

"I am afraid I do not undestand the humor in the situation."

Jim waved a hand, dismissing the comment. "That's okay Spock, dont worry about it. I don't either, to tell you the truth."

"What else happened?"

"Well, when I was eighteen I signed up to go and fight the Nazis. God, you should have seen my mom when I told her, I thought she was going to have a heart attack. I was seventeen at the time, and she refused to sign the permission slips for underage soldiers so I could ship out the year before; said if I wanted to go and get myself killed on some Godforsaken field in Europe I would have to wait until I was eighteen and had graduated high school first."

"So you fought in the war."

"Yeah." Jim sighed leaned his head back against the seat. "Hell on earth. It seemed so black and white at first, the idea of fighting; Hitler was a monster, we had to stop him, end of discussion. But then I was there, seeing the carnage and the destruction and watching lives get blown apart right in front of me. Watching good men, brothers in every way that mattered, get killed; killing men who in a different situation I'm sure I could have enjoyed a nice cold beer with, if only we hadn't been wearing different uniforms and had spoken the same language. By the end, everything descended into shades of grey and madness...I don't know how to explain it, really."

"Do not feel that you have to, if it is too difficult. I have read enough about the war to guess a fraction of what you might have gone through."

Jim looked over at him, managing a smile of thanks. "I managed to save a few lives though, make mom and the town and the memory of my old man proud, so that's something." He stared off into the distance, a bit numb from recalling places and events best left forgotten. "Maybe some other time I can wax eloquent on the subject."

"In my opinion you have already described your perceptions of those events quite admirably. But yes, we can leave the matter for another day."

Jim nodded. "Well, I became a cop after that; I'd grown up admiring detectives like Dick Tracy and Sam Spade, had this crazy idea that I might be able to become one of them; truth and justice and the American way and all that, but without the superpowers. My army sergeant suggested I head out to San Francisco, that he could put in a good word for me there, and I did and never looked back. I worked my way up the precinct ladder, had a few lucky breaks on a few big cases, and made it to detective in record time. Which I loved; God, those were the days."

"Why did you stop, if you enjoyed it so much?"

And here it was, the major event that had ruined all the plans for the rest of his sorry life. "We were chasing this perp across the rooftops one evening, my partner and I. I was right on his heels, I almost had the bastard. Then he jumped from one rooftop to the next, and when I tried to do the same thing I slipped on the tiles and fell. I hung on to a drainpipe for dear life and looked down to see how far the drop was, and, I don't know, a wire in my brain just snapped or something, but somehow looking at the ground from that distance undid me. I competely froze up, couldn't move. My partner came up from behind me, tried to help me back onto the roof, but I refused to budge."

Jim closed his eyes, feeling motions within him that had nothing to so with the movement of the car. "And then he accidentally slipped on the tiles and fell, but unlike me found nothing to cling to. I watched his form move past me and fall down and down for what felt like an eternity. I still see him falling in my mind, I dream about it, his descending into certain death and me helpless to stop it. And good God, the sound of his body smacking into the cement; I will never get that out of my head as long as I live. No one deserves to die that way."

"It wasn't your fault, Jim; surely you can see that." Spock was staring now, he could tell; he looked over to see the man's eyes trained on him, trying to will him to accept what he was saying. But Jim just laughed once, hard and bitter, and resumed staring ahead.

"So says you and everybody else; I don't know about that, I don't know about anything. So now I have acrophobia, and am unemployed because I can't get more than a couple of feet in the air without having a panic attack. So ends the sad, ridiculous life of one James T. Kirk.

"No, don't worry about me Spock," he said, looking over and smiling at the man now sporting a look of considerable alarm, "never worry about me. I don't believe in no win scenarios, you see; I'll come out of this all right in the end. What we need to worry about now is _you_, what's making you fall off of docks and into the arms of rakishly handsome blond ex-detectives, if I do say so myself."

"I fail to see how my health takes precedence over your own, Jim." Spock looked down for a moment, then back on the road. "Do you get to visit your mother often in Iowa, or return there to pay your respects to your father? Maybe a trip back to your hometown would be beneficial to you at this time."

Jim knew he was staring openly and didn't care. What the hell did it matter if he saw his folks or not? But he answered the question anyway. "My mom, I see at least once a year. My dad, well, visiting graves isn't really my thing, so even when I'm out there I really don't take the time unless my mom is being pushy about it."

"I see." Spock flicked a glance at him, then back at the road. "You must find my frequent visits to my mother's grave most illogical then."

"No!" Jim looked at him in alarm. "I mean, it's great that you do it and everything; it's admirable, really it is. But you actually remember her, there's a connection there. All I have are other people's memories and secondhand accounts of him; it's not quite the same. Lucky for you that's not a problem."

Spock's gaze darkened. "I would not be so confident about that."

Jim stared at him. "Meaning?"

Spock caught Jim's gaze and held it. "For reasons I am unsure of, memories of my mother and recollections that I should have of her and our time together in my childhood do not readily appear to me. It is most troublesome."

"Like your brain is purposely blocking her out?" Odd. "What _do_ you remember about her?"

Spock lost himself in thought. "Only momentary flashes of the past and of her, nothing substantial enough to give me a greater picture of our life together." Spock seemed slightly unsettled in speaking of this out loud.

The skyline of San Francisco loomed before them. "Don't worry Spock, we'll work on a way to get those memories back to you." Jim turned to look at Spock, smiled. "If you don't mind me moving on to a less intense topic, where to now?"

Spock seemed to approve of the idea; his gaze grew more pleasant. "As I chose the first destination, I believe it is only fair for you to decide where we go next. I unfortunately became too engrossed in our conversation and did not think to ask you to choose such a location when the timing would have been more opportune."

Jim waved his concern away. "No worries. I'll pick us someplace nice." Somewhere out in nature was always good, maybe somewhere they could be alone. "How about Muir Woods? Have you ever been there before?" Jim had always loved the ghostly dark greenery of the redwood forests of Northern California; the overwhelming feeling of stepping out of the present time and into a forest that had existed a thousand years ago—which, in a way, it kind of had. Being surrounded by some of the tallest and oldest living things in the world was pretty hard to beat; the idea of wandering there with Spock, sharing that with him, seemed pretty damn fantastic.

"I hate to appear demanding, but if possible I would prefer to go someplace else."

Jim looked at him curously; Spock seemed frozen in his seat and radiated discomfort. "We could head down to Big Basin instead; the redwoods there are just as spectacular."

"I meant that I would prefer to avoid all such forests, if possible."

Jim cocked an eyebrow at him. "You have something against giant Sequoias? Did one fall on you as a kid or something?"

"I just do not like them."

How do you despise redwoods? Jim didn't get it. "Why?"

Spock obviously hated this conversation and wanted it to end as quickly as possible, but Jim had never been one to let a matter rest and shot him a look saying as much; Spock reluctantly gave in. "A moment for them is a lifetime for a human being. They remind me that millions of people have lived and died while they continued growing. It feels wrong of them somehow, to be given that power of living forever."

"That's really not their fault, Spock. It's just how they were made, they can't help it." Jim tried to keep his voice light to counter how serious the subject was suddenly becoming.

"That does not mean that I have to visit them and have this fact thrown into my face, hypothetically speaking." Spock looked forward, a slightly haggard look on his features. "I do not like it...being made aware of it. That one day soon I'll have to die."

Just when he thought he had the man figured out, he said something new and completely surprising. "This from a man who visits a cemetery almost every day." Jim couldn't help but point out the irony.

"I know it seems highly illogical, and I am unable to find the right words at the moment to explain the differing circumstances, but that is how I feel. If I may, I request that no more be said on the subject for today."

Jim sighed. "Fine, I'll pick someplace else. It's not that big of a deal anyway." Spock's behavior was too damned odd for him to handle right now, so he sat straight ahead again and tried not to sulk. He thought he had seen moments while they were talking when Spock's eyes had transitioned to that creepy grey color, his voice deepening just a shade, but it had been too miniscule to be certain. If this discussion was causing that to happen he could stop.

He thought of other possible places they could go; he still liked the idea of being out in nature and considered the options available to them. "We could drive down the peninsula if you like, along the coast highway, enjoy the sunset." He ignored for the moment just how date-like that sounded, waited to see Spock's reaction to the suggestion. Spock looked over at him, relief visible on his face, and nodded.

They followed the highway south as it twisted and turned along the rocky cliffsides of the California coast, blue ocean as far as the eye could see on their right. The two men drove on in semi comfortable silence, the only sounds the whirring of the engine and the classical music on the radio. Spock did not push for mindless chatter to fill up the time, which was just fine with Jim. He had been a bit miffed with Spock's complete dismissal of one of his favorite places, and while he told himself it didn't matter—dammit, what was so wrong about redwoods though? Jim knew he was being as stupid as Spock in this moment, but didn't care and shifted his mind instead to process everthing he had learned about the man and what their next possible steps might be; he might be annoyed at him but that didn't mean he didn't want to still save him.

Besides, Jim was pretty sure that he had just shared more of his life story in one afternoon to one man than he had to all of his previous partners put together—Bones of course being the lone exception—and he was still feeling the growing pains of that experience, the unnerving mixed with the liberating. Spock let him brood, the flicking of his eyes the only indicator that he was examining Jim, that he sensed something was off.

After a time Spock eased the car off the road and onto the shoulder. "Do you mind if we stop? I would very much like to admire the view."

They had made it all the way to Cypress Point, a good three hours down the coast from the city; Jim realized just how deep in his own head he must have been to not have noticed the distance they had driven until now. He looked over to see eyes full of concern; If Spock was the kind of person to chew his lip, the man would be doing that right now. He looked so forlorn, like a sad puppy or something; it was still so strange that Jim could somehow get all of that solely from a pair of eyes and a slightly clenched jaw.

He sighed, unable to stay mad, and gave Spock a wink and a smile to let him know that everything was fine between them. "It wouldn't be wandering if we didn't make an unplanned stop or two, now would it? "

Spock's eyes shone a bit brighter. "No, indeed it would not." He parked and exited the car. Jim opened the passenger side and stepped out, leaning on the door and watching Spock for a moment as he wandered over to look at the view. His coat and scarf whipped gently around him, his strides long and elegant. Jim decided that Spock was fantastic to look at, and the coastline was amazing as well, but the two combined created an image that was downright obscene in its beauty. He was glad they had come here after all. Spock sped up his pace a little and headed towards a lone cypress tree—dark trunk twisted beyond belief, branches bifurcated into dark arms clawing at the sky—that was growing out of the rocky cliffside.

A cliffside that had a sheer drop that plummeted hundreds of feet down to the raging ocean below.

The image of Spock's body hurtling lifelessly towards the punishing rocks terrified Jim into action. He dashed over to Spock, afraid that at any moment the man would disappear once more over the side just as he had the other day at the Point. Once Jim drew close enough, the man jerked his head towards him and raised one eyebrow in surprise as Jim skidded to a halt in front of him, wide eyed and breathing shallowly. Then his expression softened as understanding dawned, and turned into something almost apologetic as he stared into Jim's worried face.

"There was no need to run, Jim; I feel quite myself. I promise you that I have no intention of entering the water again at this time."

Like he could really plan when Amanda would take over and when she wouldn't, but Jim didn't want to argue that point just now. "I just...I feel responsible for you, I don't know if you see that, if you really get what that means for me. If something happened to you again...the Chinese say that once you've saved a person's life you're responsible for it forever. I just want you to know that I'm not afraid of the comittment; forever's not so very long a time, after all. Nothing I can't handle." He couldn't remember where he had heard that expression, maybe in a fortune cookie, but it represented everything he was feeling and trying to get across to this man without scaring him away in the process.

Spock looked at him for a moment, a troubled look spreading across his features. "Jim, there is something I have not told you about the day I blacked out and fell into the water. Something you should know."

Like Spock could tell him anything new about that day that he didn't already know, but he was game. "What is it?"

"This has happened to me before, blackouts like the one that occurred at the dock. I will be in one place, and seem to blank out for just a moment, only to emerge somewhere completely different. I felt such an occurence coming on in the car just now, when we were discussing going to see the Sequioas."

"Did you?" Great, now he felt like a dick for being upset about the redwoods. Throwing caution to the wind, Jim pressed for more information. "I don't want to upset you or trigger anything, but what is it like when you have the blackouts? Do you remember anything about them, anything that might help us find a way to get rid of them?"

Spock paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Behind him the sea pounded against the rocks, relentless, inexorable. "When I black out, it appears as though I am walking down a long mirrored corridor, but the mirrors have all been smashed. Large shards of them are still attached, however, and when I look into those fragments I see images of another time and place, of someone else's life. A woman in shadow, performing activities I do no remember and yet some I seem to remember so well." Amanda, it had to be. "But I am not able to stop and examine each shard for long; something compels me to continue down the hallway. At the end of the corridor I see darkness, and I am aware somehow, though no one has told me, that if I walk into that darkness I shall cease to exist. I will be with the woman in the mirror, in a place where no one can reach me." Spock looked directly into Jim's eyes; there was disbelief there, and a slight undercurrent of fear. "In the dream I have always managed to avoid reaching the end of the corridor, until yesterday."

"When you fell into the Bay." Spock nodded. "And you didn't realize what had happened until you woke up in my bed." There was something he was overlooking, but he couldn't figure out what. "The scenes in the mirror fragments, are you able to remember any of them?"

"Vague recollections only, but yes, some I remember." He looked past Jim, working to recall them. "In one of the fragments I see the woman sitting in a room by herself. I can sense she is alone...always so alone." Spock seemed troubled by the thought.

"Can you tell what kind of room she is in?"

"No, everything around her is always in shadow."

"What else do you see in the fragments?"

"The same woman standing on a beach, her body growing cold, the wind chilling her to bone, scanning the horizon for a ship that never comes. It is too dark, though, I cannot recognize the beach."

It was probably Ocean Beach, but Jim didn't say that out loud. "Do you see a portrait in any of your fragments?"

"No. But in one...in another one I see a grave before me, open and empty, no light reaching into its depths. There is a name on the grave, and while I cannot read it I know it is mine, prepared and waiting for me."

Jim's head was spinning, lost to these new facts. He knew he just needed that one piece of the puzzle to click into place and everything else would pop into focus, give him the answer. Unfortunately that usually required patience, and patience had never been strong on his list of virtues. "What else do you see in the fragments?"

"In another the woman is sitting on a lawn by a building, watching something unrecognizable in the distance. The building is all in shadow."

Jim sighed in frustration. "If I could only find the key, the one thing that will put all of this together and explain what is going on, how to break this..."

"But Jim, there _is_ a perfectly logical explanation for everything." He looked over, confused at how the man could possibly have solved all of this before he did, and saw Spock's brows furrowing ever so slightly. "Insanity would provide a suitable explanation, wouldn't it?" Under the brows his eyes looked wild, frightened. Jim had never see that look on him before; it didn't belong there, and its being there now was downright terrifying.

"Spock, no!" He grasped the man's shoulders. "That's not it at all, you can't possibly believe that."

"If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." And with that Spock ripped himself from Jim's grasp and flew down the hill, his black scarf whipping behind him, to a section of the cliff that was nearer to the crashing surf. Jim chased after him, going as fast as the craggy terrain allowed, catching him at last and pulling the man around to face him. He grabbed both sides of that beautiful face and forced Spock to look deep into his blue eyes. Jim hoped the determination he felt, the dogged will he had in solving this, would somehow get through.

"Spock, listen to me. The whole Amanda thing taking over your body seems improbable too, but it's the only thing that makes sense. You're _not_ mad, I promise. I know Amanda is in you, we just have to figure out a way to set her free, to finally help her rest in peace. We'll figure out how to do that, I know we will, I just need you to trust me."

Spock looked at him, and his eyes shone with an emotion that was as beautiful in its desolation as it was heartbreaking. "I do trust you, Jim. I do not really believe that I am going mad, nor do I wish to die. But there is a spirit within me, the ikiryo, and she says I must die, and I do not know how to make her leave. I am positive she will continue to pursue me until I am dead."

"You can't give her that kind of power over you, Spock. You musn't admit defeat now when we are so close to finding the answer."

"Your argument excludes the possibility of a no-win scenario—"

"Goddammit, I don't _believe_ in no-win scenarios, and neither should you." The ferocity is his voice surprised them both. "And even if I did, this isn't a done deal, not by a long shot. Your death from this woman is not inevitable."

Something in Spock's expression seemed to slump a little. "I do not have the same conviction that you possess on the matter, Jim. My strength of will unfortunately does not match your own."

"The _hell_ it doesn't!" God, why was this man not getting it? How could Jim make him understand? "You have survived so much already, horrors I cannot even begin to imagine, things that would have broken the spirit of a lesser man. Don't you _dare_ concede to me on strength of will, or to her. It's not your time yet to die and she _knows_ it, Spock, it's why she's fighting so hard to make you cross over. I won't give you up to her that easily, I won't let her take you from me. Don't you see, you've given me something to work on; I'll find the answer, the true answer to what is going on and how to stop it, and when I do I promise you'll be free."

Spock was breathless, shaky, his eyes close to that breathtaking look Jim had seen in the car earlier that day. "And until you find the answer, you will stay with me, lend me your strength, protect me...from reaching the end of the corridor?"

"All the time. I'm here and I've got you, you're safe with me." And something in Spock's eyes finally seemed to understand. Hope emerged over despair, and all the feelings he had for Jim, trust and admiration and desire and...love? Could that emotion suddenly flitting to the surface be love?

Jim could no longer hold back; his feelings were ragged already, and that one look sent him overboard. Without warning, Jim surged forward and pressed his lips to Spock's.

Spock stilled, reflexively moving his head back in surprise. Jim was afraid for a moment that he had finally gone too far, that the man would pull away and reject him completely. Then he felt arms softly snake around his waist and pull him closer, felt Spock kissing him back.

Jim was no stranger to romance, as all of his previous relationships had been filled to the brim with it—intense passion, a foolish abandonment of reason, steamy kisses in the rain and under the sheets. So he was surprised to find that kissing Spock was not a raging hurricane of emotion that set off earthquakes in his soul; it was more like a cooling rain settling over a parched Iowa cornfield, a feeling of pieces clicking silently into place inside him that he didn't know had been missing. Something seemed to fly into him and perch there, at home and at peace.

The only sounds Jim could hear were the crashing of the surf beyond and the galloping of his own heart. Spock's lips were soft and open and willing, his tongue even more so. There was a fierceness to the way he kissed that Jim had not expected; the lack of reserve took him aback. It was as if Spock were afraid that Jim would disappear at any moment, and he had to do his best to take in as much of Jim as he could before he was gone.

Jim sighed, in heaven, and deepened the kiss even further, almost purring when Spock responded in kind. He moved his hands from Spock's face and hair, that glorious grey hair, to wrap around his shoulders and pressed against him, pouring all of his emotions into the moment. He needed to know that Spock knew that Jim cherished him, that he wanted him, that he would never let him go off into the darkness of the corridor, now and forever lost. Not when Jim finally had him.

Not when Spock was the man he loved.

•

On the drive back to San Francisco Jim abandoned any pretense of politeness and took to simply watching Spock; his elegant hands on the steering wheel, the shifting of his muscles under his suit, and lastly the profile of his face, which Jim had held in his hands and kissed soundly less than an hour ago. His intense focus apparently did not go without notice; eventually Spock looked over at him, a hint of amusement and affection in his brown eyes, and Jim shamelessly met his glance.

"Sorry if I'm staring," he said, his voice utterly unapologetic.

Spock kept examining him for a moment, then resumed watching the road, turning the steering wheel ever so slightly to match the curves. "No apology is necessary." He seemed to mean it, but there was something in his expression that Jim found himself unable to translate, and it gave him pause. While Jim felt absolutely zero embarrassment in being caught eyeing Spock like he planned on devouring him alive, if it made the man uncomfortable he would stop. He was sure the man had lines, and while he had not appeared to cross any so far—certainly not while they were kissing like there was no tomorrow, Jim thought with a wicked grin—there were always limits. He reluctantly turned his head away from Spock and faced forward, staring out at the ocean in the distance. It couldn't hold a candle to what he had just been admiring, but its tranquil beauty in the setting sun would suffice.

"I admit that I do not see your purpose in examining me, Jim. However as I find no discomfort from the experience, if such an activity gives you pleasure then you are welcome to continue performing it at this time."

Jim's head whipped back over, eyes wide and staring. Then he burst into a giant smirk. "You liked it, you bastard. Admit it, you enjoyed me staring at you just now like an awestruck teenager."

Spock kept his face forward and expressionless, but Jim thought the man looked inordinately pleased with himself; sneaky devil. "I am glad that we are in agreement as to the maturity level of your expression. But you are mistaken; I feel neither positive nor negative emotions over the experience. I however am confused as to what you could find in my appearance that is so utterly fascinating."

"You are such a liar, you know that? No emotions my ass. And I would tell you exactly what I was admiring about you, but it would only make you blush."

"I assure you that I do not blush, therefore am more than able to handle any explanation you care to present to me."

Jim noticed Spock looking at him out of the corner of his eyes, flashed him a wicked grin. "Fishing for compliments are we? Want your ego stroked a bit more? I wasn't born yesterday, you know; I can detect a scheme like the one you are trying to pull a mile away, and I refuse to fall for it."

Spock's eyes crinkled and the corners of his mouth twitched slightly. Aha! Score one for Jim. "Perhaps there is some truth to what you say. Or perhaps I in fact do not have any particular scheme in mind and am simply stating a fact."

Jim grinned. "Yeah, right. I'd test the theory that you do not blush right here, right now, but I'm pretty sure that your enjoyment of my proving you wrong would only cause you to drive us right off the road and into the ocean. Your manly wiles will not work on me this time."

"I could always pull over to perfom the test, though I think you might be overestimating your undoubtedly impressive talents and understimating my own formidable skills of concentration. And I was not aware that my _wiles_, as you call them, had succeeded against you on a previous occasion. Please enlighten me as to when this occurred."

"If you couldn't tell, then I see no reason to share; self preservation and all that. And you should never, _ever_ underestimate my considerable talents. But for both of our sakes I think we'd be better off testing your theory on another date."

"A pity." Spock did not sound in the least bit upset. "But as the evening approaches I must agree with you. I have an engagement that I am disinclined to miss."

"Ah." Jim didn't mean to pry, really, not when everything was going so great between them, but it wasn't in his nature to reign in his curiosity. "With the business partner ex-captain that you're currently in a relationship with?" Jim was proud that he had actually remembered he wasn't supposed to know Pike's name, considering everything rushing through his head right now.

Spock's eyes flicked over to him, trying to read his expression, then returned to the road. "As a matter of fact, yes." Something in him seemed to shut down and seal off the happiness he had been projecting before. Was it guilt? Embarrassment? Annoyance? Jim couldn't be sure. "If it all right with you, I would prefer not to discuss this matter at present." There was a sharpness to his voice that had not been there a moment ago.

"Yeah, sure." Jim cursed his stupidity in pushing the matter; because he couldn't keep his damn mouth closed their easy banter from moments before had fled, Pike's presence in this equation filling the car with an almost tangible force.

Jim focused on the radio instead, noticed the music playing. "You really do like opera, don't you?" Spock noticed the music as well, nodded. He still had his walls up, but at least he was willing to interact with him. "Was is it about it that you enjoy so much? " It was a safe enough topic that wold hopefully dissipate some of the tension in the car, and if he was lucky, would allow Spock to ramble on at length with that gorgeous voice of his. Jim didn't see a downside, other than boredom, but he was quickly finding that Spock could make the dullest subject interesting.

Spock took a moment to consider the question, seemed grateful to have a new topic to distract him. "If I am honest with myself, I was first attracted to it because of my mother's intense love for it. I figured that something she felt that passionately about must be quite extraordinary." Jim nodded; that made sense. "However, I soon grew to love it for merits unrelated to her feelings. The stories for one; all operas have larger than life emotions at play. The characters feel their loves and losses so intensely and on such a grand scale; it is hard to be immune to such a spectacle. And secondly the music; to hear those emotions sung to some of the greatest music ever written is quite striking. It is an almost religious experience." Spock looked over at him. "Is that a satisfactory answer?"

Jim gave him a small smile. "Completely."

"If I may return the question with another, I would like to know what is it about jazz that you find so intriguing."

Yikes, Jim didn 't have a clue where to begin. "Have you ever been to a jazz club before?"

Spock paused, then shook his head. "I must admit that I have never had that pleasure, no."

Jim shook his head in turn; the poor man. "Then I don't know if I'll be of any help. It takes seeing jazz performed live to truly get it, I think. You can buy all the records you want, but it's the being there—the smoke, the grime, the spontaneity, the power in the sounds that wash over you and in you; there is nothing like hearing live jazz, nothing in the world. It's the rawness of life distilled into music." Jim laughed at bit. "How crazy I must sound, am I right? Me waxing poetic; what a sappy thing to do."

"On the contrary, I find your remarks on the subject fasinating. I shall have to remedy my neglect of such a spectacle in the near future."

Jim could see he meant it, decided to push a tiny bit. "Would you like to go to a club with me next week, see some live jazz for yourself? You won't regret it, I promise. I'll make it worth your while." Jim let any and all meanings behind that statement hang in the air between them.

Something in Spock seemed to melt a little at the request; he looked over and the expression on his face was overpowering. "I cannot think of anything I would wish to do more."

Jim beamed; he couldn't help it. "Good, it's a date then." He knew he was being forward yet again, testing the limits of Spock's patience with him, but he refused to back off of calling it what he felt it would be. Apparently Spock felt the same way, or at the very least was fine with Jim feeling that way; he did not move to correct him.

After making it back into the city Spock returned to Jim's apartment, with only the smallest of promptings on how to get there. Jim moved to get out of the car but suddenly felt a tug at his arm. He turned in surprise to see Spock's face, close and earnest. "Jim..." Soft lips pressed against his, a kiss both chaste and heartfelt. Jim closed his eyes and kissed back, matching what Spock was willing to give. All too soon they pulled away. "Will your schedule allow me to see you again tomorow?"

Jim smiled his brightest smile, impulsively reaching over to run a hand along the side of Spock's face. "And every day after, if you want. But yes, tomorrow is perfect." Spock gave him that small smile he was growing to love so much and nodded at him.

"Tomorrow then. I will be here."

Jim grinned. "You better." He gave him one last peck on the lips, a Kirk worthy parting gift, and exited the car, giving him a tip of his hat before Spock drove off.

Jim watched the car descend the hill and disappear around the corner. Men didn't float, dammit, but if they did then the way he was walking over to his front door could somewhat fit that description. He opened his door, grinning like a fool, to find something had been slipped under it while he'd been away. He opened it the tiny note, grinned even wider, and quickly locked his apartment door and headed to his car; apparently he had a date of his own tonight after all.

::    Author's Notes:

• From what I can tell, Hitch shot the redwood scenes in Big Basin but it was meant to imply Muir Woods. Pretty either way. I originally started writing out a scene where they do go to see the redwoods, but it bogged things down so the place only gets a mention instead.

• They did actually film at Cypress Point, and that's such an important and iconic scene that there was no way I was going to cut it.

• Loltastic fact: the cedar tree they stand by in the movie was actually a prop; it doesn't really exist. An apparently its image is copyrighted, and they will indeed call you out for using photos of it without permission. Hahahaha.

• The Chinese proverb thing is in the movie; I wasn't going to use it but then realized how well it works so I reinserted it.

• The whole dream thing, walking down the corridor of smashed mirrors and if you reach the end you die, straight from the movie.

• "But there's someone within me and she says I must die" is from the movie; I liked its wording so I kept it in my story.

• Used "Dont you see, you've given me something to work on" too.

• Shoutout to Emily Dickinson in the kissing scene: "Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul." :D


	8. Chapter 8

The stupid grin on Jim's face refused to go away, and by the time he had reached Bones' apartment he had pretty much given up trying. He remembered his manners and knocked on the door for once in his life, sure Spock would be proud of him if he knew.

Bones took one look at him and grinned himself; it seemed a little too wide for his face. "Well hello; don't you look like the cat that swallowed the canary this evening."

Jim's grin turned playful, wicked. "Not yet, Bones, not yet, but I'm getting close."

Bones rolled his eyes, but the comment obviously couldn't have annoyed him all that much as the grin stayed firmly in place. "If that is supposed to allude to something in particular, for the love of God don't tell me."

"Duly noted." In spite of the light from the apartment streaming behind Bones and casting him in shadow, his friend's eyes flashed with a warmth and humor for him that was easy to see. Jim wondered if it was just a funny coincidence that the two most important men in his life had brown eyes, or if he just had a weakness for that particular color. "I got your note; is this slipping things under other men's doors a new habit of yours?"

"Only when I can't get them on the damn phone. Come on in and take a load off." Bones stepped away and Jim followed him along the tiny screened corridor that separated the front door of the apartment from view of the living room. The lamps were on and the shades were up, showing off the gleaming beauty of the city's rising hills at night. Bones went over to the kitchen and grabbed two glasses, dropping a few cubes of ice into both. "Scotch and Soda?" Jim nodded and went over to sink into the couch; as he had no objections to the stylings of Charlie Parker, he let the record player go unmolested. Bones fixed up the drinks and brought a glass over to Jim, then settled himself in a chair by the window. "So, what happened?"

Because it was still in the back of his mind, a now well-worn memory that he had been reliving over and over, Jim thought at first that Bones had somehow found out about his afternoon with Spock and the kiss; he shifted guiltily in his seat despite having nothing to feel guilty about. But he figured it out after his brain finally kicked in. "You mean about bringing Spock to my house to get dry last night."

Bones cocked an eyebrow at him like he was insane. "Yes, that. And since you never called me back as promised, no weaseling out on the details this time."

Jim grinned, deflecting anyway. "So _that's_ why you invited me over here; you just wanted to liquor me up so you could have your wicked way with me; I see how it is between us. And here I thought the desperation in your note meant you genuinely wanted to see me for _me_."

Bones scowled. "What desperation? I simply asked where you were and told you to come by if you wanted to see a movie tonight. Explain to me what part of that screams desperate to you."

Jim knocked back a big slug of his drink. "I detected an undercurrent."

"Oh, really? Well I'm detecting an undercurrent myself. Of bullshit. Cut the crap and start spilling and you might get some dinner to go with that movie."

Jim sighed in frustration; it was tough to play defense against someone who knew all of your moves ten times over. Especially if they were willing to bribe you with food to get what they wanted out of you; it was a very enticing, and low, blow. Plus after the day he'd had his head wasn't really in the mood for a verbal chess match. He decided to tell Bones what he wanted to know, but play it cool. "You drive a hard bargain, my friend. Fine, I surrender, no more stalling." He smiled warmly.

Bones smiled back. "That's the spirit." He got up to refresh his drink, ice rattling around in his empty glass, then headed towards the kitchen. "What do you want me to make you as a reward for being so good?"

Jim waved his hand lazily at nothing in particular. "I'm not picky, whatever you feel like having."

Bones opened his fridge, peered in at its contents. "How do crepes sound?"

Jim perked up. "Seriously? I've been good but I didn't realize I'd been _that_ good."

Bones snorted. "You haven't, but I just got a new crepe pan and have been looking for an excuse to give it a test run."

Only Bones could talk about cooking with crepe pans and make it sound like a somewhat masculine thing to do; Jim smiled. "Ah yes, I hate it when my crepe pans wear out. Always such a travesty."

Bones gave him a pointed look. "Is insulting me really in your best interests at this moment, Jim?"

Jim relaxed farther into the couch, completely at ease from the lack of real animosity behind the words. Deflecting Bones' persistent digging? Strenuous. Playfully bantering with him? Child's play, and one of the things Jim lived for. "How is that an insult? I am simply pointing out the dedication you have to the art of cooking."

Bones began pulling ingredients out of the cupboards and fridge and onto the counter; flour, salt, butter, milk, eggs, cheese. "Cooking is nothing more than simple physics and chemistry at work, Jim, as much a science as it is an art. Which makes the crepe pan a tool to rival any of those I used in my days practicing medicine. Don't make fun of my tools."

Jim rested his hands behind his head. "Well if that's the case, you being good at it comes as no surprise. Your dedication to both the fields of science and art is an amazing, delicious thing, and one that only a fool would dream making fun of."

"I'm glad we're in agreement on that." The twinkle in his friend's eye made Jim happy, even if it came at his own expense. Bones began chopping up some ham and mushrooms, his hands nimble and sure with the knife as they flew above the cutting board; Jim watched him from his spot on the couch in fascination. Bones had first learned how to make crepes while they were stationed in France during the war; over the years it had become one of his signature dishes, and not coincidentally one of Jim's favorites. His mouth began watering in anticipation.

"So Jim, since I'm dutifully fulfilling my end of the bargain, why don't you start working on yours." His eyes didn't leave the cutting board, but he was definitely paying close attention, that much was obvious.

Play it cool, Jim, play it cool. "Well, Spock woke up during our phone call last night—which is why I had to cut out on you, by the way, no hard feelings I hope." Bones waved his hand holding the knife in a way that indicated all was forgiven. "We sat together by the fire drinking hot liquids and making small talk until his clothes got dry; why he might have fallen into the the bay, our current occupations, places in the city we like to go to...stuff like that. Pike called out of the blue, I assured him everything was all right, and by the time I got back to the living room Spock had taken his clothes and car and vanished, presumably none the worse for wear. After this realization I stumbled off to bed and peace once again resumed over the land. The end. It's a very boring story, actually."

"Really." Bones was looking up at him now with _that_ expression, the one that said he wasn't sold on Jim's nonchalance and wouldn't rest until he finally was; Jim loathed that expression. He had obviously played it _too_ cool, dammit; he took another sip of his drink and tried to figure a way out of this mess.

"Yes, _really_. You read too much into everything, old friend; I promise it was as innocent as all that."

Bones rolled his eyes and began whisking the crepe batter together in a giant bowl. "Please. You waltzed in here tonight with that look you always get after you've just made out for the first time with your latest conquest and are over the moon about it; don't think I didn't notice. There's something going on between you and this Spock guy that you're not telling me."

Jim sighed. Bones wanted the truth, did he, and was willing to pay for it in crepes? Fine, no more secrets then. "Maybe that's because I did."

Bones cocked an eyebrow, but otherwise stayed preoccupied with his batter; Jim's answer was obviously not the reaction he had been expecting. "Did what?"

"Make out with Spock."

Out of the corner of his eye Jim watched Bones go still for a moment, the hand with the whisk pausing mid stir, then continuing on its path as if nothing had happened. "Is that so? And when during last night did this happen?"

Jim swallowed. "Not last night, this afternoon."

Bones put the mixing bowl in his hands down with careful precision; it made the softest of sounds as it tapped against the counter. He looked down into the batter as if scrutinizing it for flaws; he did not look up at Jim. "This afternoon?"

"Yeah." Now that Jim had started being honest, he found that his mouth wouldn't stop. "He dropped off an apology note to my place this morning, we chatted a bit. One thing led to another and we ended up spending the day together. We drove down to Cedar Point, kissed there around sunset."

Okay, there was no reason on earth to stare at batter that long; something was up. Was he was doing something wrong by going off about his newfound relationship with Spock? If so he didn't have the slightest clue what it could be. Jim had gone into worse details about his past sexual escapades before with hardly the raise of an eyebrow; why Bones would be upset over something as harmless as Jim kissing someone else he couldn't fathom. _He_ was the one who had been so interested in wringing out the details of Jim's personal life; if he didn't want to hear it then why ask? The guilty feeling he'd had earlier returned anyway despite his justifications; he shoved it down and tried his best to ignore it.

Bones placed his hands on the counter and leaned forward; the tenseness in his shoulders belied the relatively calm expression on his face. "I thought you were tailing him."

"I am."

Bones ran a hand through his hair, visibly frustrated. "Has the definition of tailing suddenly taken on a new meaning that I don't know about? Or is approaching your subject the day after you blow your cover and 'spending the day together' now standard procedure?" The even mechanical tone to his voice made Jim feel inexplicably wary and defensive.

"It's not, but neither is standing by and letting my subject drown in the Bay. And he has no clue I'm tailing him by the way, I'm not _that_ dumb."

Bones' jaw tightened noticeably. "Don't sell yourself short Jim, you are plenty dumb enough." There was no affection or humor to soften the comment's blow; its sting was unexpected. Bones went over and got a shiny new-looking crepe pan down from the wall, studied it as if examining its surface was the only thing keeping him calm. "And _what_, for the love of God, were you two doing together all day?"

"Wandering." He thought of Spock again, of being with him, of the private joke they now shared inspired by that word, and couldn't help it when the corners of his mouth twitched up and his foolish lovestruck grin returned.

The sound of the crepe pan slamming violently onto the stovetop startled him; he whipped his head back to see Bones' glowering at him. "Goddammit, Jim, this isn't funny; if you don't wipe that smirk off your face I'll be happy to do it for you."

Jim was taken aback; he was no stranger to Bones' usual idle threats, but this time something in his tone said he meant every last malevolent word. He slowly set down his glass on the nearest available surface and looked over at his friend with concern. "What is it exactly you object to, Bones? You've never met the guy, you have no idea what he's like."

Bones came around the counter and stopped at the edge of the living room, bringing his glare of death with him. "I'm not objecting to him, I'm objecting to _you_. To the fact that the second this guy plays Ophelia and you run to his rescue like he's some goddamned damsel in distress, it turns you into some moony-eyed fool who loses all sense of perspective."

Jim's eyes narrowed. _Moony-eyed?_ He was nothing of the sort. "What do you mean I lose all sense of perspective?"

"The fact is that you're tailing him for this guy Pike, whom he also happens to be dating. _Pike_, Jim, _not_ _you_. How do you think Spock'll feel when he finds out what you've been up to, stalking him all this time, pretending not to know the things you do about him? And how'll Pike feel when he finds out you've betrayed him, swooping in to steal Spock out from under him after asking you for your help to save him? Goddamit, Jim, there are _rules_ about these kind of things, and for a good reason." He stepped further into the room, invading the space in front of Jim, furious. "But no, not for you, you're always above the rules aren't you? Always have to push things, always have to test the waters. Well this time you've _really_ gone and hit the deep end."

Jim's eyes narrowed to slits. "By all means, Bones, enlighten me." His words had a flinty edge to them, more challenging than curious.

Bones was only a few steps away from him now. "Do you have any idea how many times I had to patch you up during the war, more than any other soldier in the field, all because you had to go out and be the Goddamned reckless hero every chance you got?" He enunciated every word like an adult speaking to a particularly slow, stupid child. "Have you ever tried counting how many times I've dragged your ass back home after barfights _you_ started because you didn't know how to shut your mouth and back off from a challenge like a reasonable person? I won't even get started on the number of fool stunts you've pulled on cases as a detective, putting your ass on the line in the name of getting the bad guy and pitting yourself against your partner and captain to do so. And now this. It's one thing to sleep with some random person that you've connected with in a bar, it's quite another to literally dick around with the boyfriend of a client."

Jim's eyes narrowed. "We're not sleeping together, Bones."

Bones laughed, hollow and bitter. "Not yet maybe. But you will, you won't be able to help it because you're _you_ and you've never been able to keep your damn urges to yourself where they belong. It's a mistake, Jim, and one I refuse to sit around and watch you make." They were almost chest to chest now. "I'm always the one who has to swoop in like some demented angel of mercy and save your ass when things get tough, and frankly I'm getting sick and tired of it."

Jim smirk was cruel, cutting. "I'm sorry my ass has been such a pain for you, but I don't see how mistakes I have or haven't made yet are any of your damn business. And it's not a mistake what I'm doing, not this time." Maybe it was because the trail of honesty was propelling Jim forward on its inevitable path, or because he truly thought it would make things better for Bones and help him understand, that Jim went ahead and with some trepidation pulled the pin off of the revelatory grenade, letting it leave his lips and hurl towards his friend on a unavoidable collision course.

"Bones, Spock's more than some fleeting sexual conquest to me. I think I love him."

Bones' eyes widened in surprise; he actually stepped back a bit. "That's so..."

"Weird, right?" Jim barked out a strange little laugh, ran a hand through his hair, let his eyes settle to the floor. Despite the time he'd had to process it all it still felt strange to admit out loud, especially with the mood in the apartment being what it was. "Me. In love."

Bones' eyes narrowed again. "Like hell you are, Jim."

His voice was chilling. Bones' voice could be many things; flickering with friendship and affection, boiling over with anger or annoyance, simmering softly with contentment. But it was always warm in some way; not frozen like this, like just touching him would freeze Jim upon contact. Jim looked up to see that his eyes matched his voice, pools of brown so dark with emotion they were almost black. It made Jim want to lash out, to do something to stir up the fire in his friend again, even if it meant yelling and punching and words said hastily in anger; anything to burn away the cold fury that didn't belong there.

"So you think you know me that well, Bones, know even better than I do what I'm feeling?" He said it softly, steel behind his words. "I suppose you're the grand expert on love now, is that it?"

Bones' hands clenched into fists. Jim wondered if one of them would soon be swinging at him, felt his body steel itself for whatever might happen. "I never said I knew what love was; you know damn well that I'm the last guy to ask about it. But I sure as hell know what it _isn't_. You think the way you feel about this guy means you're in love, means he loves you back? Well I got news for you, kid; there's definitely words to describe what you are feeling, but love sure as hell ain't one of them."

With the way he said it, Bones might as well have just called him a whore and be done with it, or punched him in the face like he had threatened to do earlier; it would have hurt less. He refused to let Bones see how much the comment hurt, instinctively struck back.

"You're a mean drunk, Bones, saying asinine things you don't mean. Face it, you're just jealous that I've got somebody now who loves me and you don't." He flicked a callous gaze up and down Bones' form. "Look at yourself; it's no wonder you wake up alone every day with no one to love you back." He knew it was a spiteful and dirty thing to say, found that his wounded ego didn't much care.

Bones flinched as if he had been slapped; the comment must have hit home somewhere. His next words were slow, measured, his eyes razor thin slits. "Maybe that's so. But I don't think you should be patronizing me about my drinking and messed up life when you're not even self aware enough to examine your own. At least I know I'm incapable of loving someone; your problem is that you haven't figured that out yet. And when you do, when you end up betraying Spock because you just can't help it, can't keep it in your pants or leave things well enough alone or just flat out embarrass him one too many times, Spock will show you the door and send you off to a life filled with bitter loneliness and regret, your bags on the porch all packed up and waiting for you."

He reached over to Jim's almost empty glass on the side table, no more than an arm's width away, and grabbed it, held it up mockingly towards Jim as if he wanted to make him a toast. "Here's to being a cautionary tale in the making; may you have as much happiness with love as I've had." He knocked the rest of the drink back, draining it to the dregs; he slammed it back down and looked at Jim once more, still no more than a foot or so away. There was no way to escape the look of contempt on his face, or to misinterpret it.

Jim gave Bones an icy glare, stepping away from him before he said or did anything truly unforgivable, something for which he would find their friendship beyond salvaging. He grabbed his hat and stalked over to the hallway.

"Where are you going?" Bones' voice was tinged with something he was too pissed off to decipher.

"Away from you, and don't you dare try and stop me." Jim shoved his hat on his head with more force than was probably necessary, turned around to face his friend, still rooted to his spot. "You feel like you always have to step in, do you, save your stupid manslut of a friend who is incapable of love from himself? Well screw you; I have Spock now to look after me, and me after him, so you are officially relieved of that responsibility. We'll spend the rest of our lives proving you wrong, together and happy, and nothing you say will change that. Sorry I'm not staying for dinner, I've suddenly lost my appetite." And with that he turned and exited the apartment, slamming the door behind him, positive that the devastated look that might or might have not flashed across Bones' face as he left was only a trick of his imagination.

•

Jim could remember with perfect precision the seminal events in his life. Reading Dick Tracy as a young boy and wanting to be just like him; watching his dad's car tumble to the bottom of the quarry; watching his older brother Sam leave home, not exactly abandoning him but feeling awfully close to it; seeing Humphrey Bogart bring Sam Spade to life on the silver screen and wanting not just to be like him, but to _be_ him; meeting Leonard McCoy for the first time as he lay dying on an army operating table; enduring the horrific clarity of being a young soldier at war; moving to San Francisco and getting his first glimpse of the Golden Gate Bridge; making detective at such a young age and despite all the odds against him; watching helplessly as his partner plummeted to his inevitable death. All of these things had awakened pieces of him somehow, shaped his life and his views on it in extraordinary and individual ways.

Now he was facing an awakening of another sort.

Jim slowed his steps a bit and checked his watch. He had been briskly pounding the pavement for a couple of hours now, his mind and feet both traveling every which way. His feet had led him downtown to the corner of Stockton and Geary, Union Square before him, its normally bustling streets deserted at such a late hour. The only light came spilling down from the streetlamps; it filtered across the ground and was quickly swallowed up by the surrounding blackness. The only sounds were the clacking of his shoes on the pavement and the clicking of the stoplights as they changed from green to yellow to red.

It wasn't too cold or too foggy, the sort of San Francisco night Jim had always reveled in during his detective days. It was the perfect sort of weather for meeting with informants or tracking down leads in the dark, one step closer to uncovering the truth and seeing justice done. But no nighttime fact-finding adventures were planned for tonight, or perhaps ever again, so instead he simply circled once around the square and started the slow, mostly uphill trek back to his apartment, favoring the smaller residential streets as he did so.

Soon he was hiking up the steep Russian Hill terrain that could make even the hardiest San Franciscan stop to catch their breath. No dinner and several hours of strenuous walking were finally catching up to him; he felt like he was about to collapse on the sidewalk from exhaustion. Time for a break, his body screamed, and he saw no reason to deny it what it wanted. He fell onto the nearest stoop while loosening his tie and collar, his breath escaping in jagged gasps and his jacket landing haphazardly beside him.

As he rested and tried to steady his breath he thought back to Bones and to their fight in the apartment, to the things that had been said. Now that he had worked his body to the point of passing out, his fury over Bones' heated reactions and cruel words had fizzled somewhat. It would have happened eventually—Jim always found it tough to stay angry at Bones for long, the man was too much a part of him—but the massive amount of walking had helped speed up the process by sending a shot of metaphorical epinephrine straight to the heart of the matter.

Yes, Bones had been obstinate and insufferable and infuriating, almost inexcusably so, and Jim was justified in being hurt by what had been said. But dammit, Bones had also been right, and it would be foolish of Jim to ignore the sound yet insensitively delivered points that his best friend had made.

After all, when it came right down to it, what _did_ Jim know about healthy romantic relationships? He knew lust; oh, did he ever know lust. And flirtation, and one night stands, and string-free attachments; these things were age old friends and acquaintances. Only a few of his many conquests—Jim could count them all on one hand—had ever crossed over into the distinction of being a noncasual boyfriend or girlfriend, each a temporary moment of permanence in Jim's otherwise fluctuating parade of sex and companionship.

And only once, only with Bones, had he ever come close to approaching something that on the surface looked and felt a lot like love. Jim rested his head back on the cool concrete steps and closed his eyes, allowing himself a moment to indulgently dredge up the past, finding that the memories in question easily floated to the surface of his mind despite the passing of time.

He could remember with perfect clarity the afternoon Bones had first landed on his doorstep all those years ago, freshly kicked to the curb by his wife, a few worn duffel bags holding all of his remaining earthly possessions. Somehow he had managed to get in a plane, an act he loathed, and fly to a city he had never before seen for no other reason than that was where Jim lived. The way he had looked that day—clothes wrinkled and unkempt, face unshaven, shoulders slumped in some sort of unspoken defeat—had been memorable enough. But it was the _way_ Bones had looked at him, his eyes deep pockets of brown, fierce and haunted and full of nameless ragged desires—desires that unmistakably mirrored his own—that Jim would never be able to forget. And once Bones had set his bags on the porch and proceeded to kiss him senseless, well, he had given into all of those latent desires without a second thought.

If Jim had possessed any presence of mind at that moment, he never would have kissed him back or pulled him into his apartment and right then and there started the makings of a three-month relationship with his best friend—three amazing months of deep kisses and halting confessions and lazy weekends spent curled up in Jim's bed bantering about nothing in particular, content simply to be together—another seminal point in his life. But Jim was the kind of person, who, when he wanted something, would greedily snatch at it with both hands, no matter how ill-advised it was or how damning the consequences would be. And he had wanted Bones for years and years—an eternity in Kirk time—in every way it was possible to want someone. The temptation of having him at last had been too great to throw away.

Until Bones had thrown _him_ away—another seminal moment—raging like some wounded, cornered animal about how no judge in his right mind would give joint custody to a gay father living with another man, how meeting Jim and their subsequent friendship had destroyed the peaceful, quiet contentment that should have rightfully been his life with Jocelyn and Joanna. That Bones wished he had never laid eyes on Jim in the first place and never wanted to see him again. He had packed and left that very night, leaving Jim to process the idea of a life where having Bones in any form was an impossibility.

In one of his more introspective moments, days after the hurt and denial had passed and he began to lick his wounds, Jim had sat back and reflected on why things had gone so horribly wrong between them. It seemed so horrendously obvious now that the end had arrived: Bones had not been ready for the reality of a fresh commitment after so much pain, so much regret. He had simply grasped onto friendliest warm body he could find in order to feel something real and tangible while everything else around him was falling apart, and bodies didn't come any friendlier or warmer than Jim's. He'd been nothing more than a convenient rebound man—best friend and confidant, sure, among other things, but a rebound nonetheless. It wasn't a pretty fact to face, but by that time telling comforting mistruths to himself no longer seemed like an option.

In the end his mind had boiled it down to the simplest explanation that his brain could comprehend: Bones was his Man Friday. Or Girl Friday, or whatever the hell you wanted to call the thing that existed between the two of them. Bones was the Effie Perine to his Sam Spade, the Hildy Johnson to his Walter Burns, the Louie Renault to his Rick Blaine. In short, the person who matched him in every way that mattered, who saw him as he really was, who kept him rooted in reality no matter how crazy things got, and who always got him out of the convoluted jams he inevitably found himself in. With the exception of Walter and Hildy, men like Jim did not end up together with their Fridays; it was just not the way of the world. They were people to be counted on and respected, but never touched, and he'd been a fool to go against that, to attempt to break that sacred bond by fumbling for something more.

So when the dust had finally cleared and Bones had come to him and apologized—insisted he hadn't meant a word, that he'd been a fool to blame Jim for his problems, that he wanted to salvage what he could of their friendship—Jim had jumped at the chance to make amends. He slipped back into the easy friendship they'd always been blessed with, for once in his life trying to use what little amount of self control he had to keep his full emotions for his best friend reigned in, refusing to open himself to the possibility of more between them. Bones as a friend was better than no Bones at all; he was in too far now to just throw everything away.

Still, he was only human; occasionally those feelings _did_ creep back to the surface, tempting him to once again push the boundaries of their relationship. But in those moments he just reminded himself that Bones was his Friday and nothing more, his emotions for the man just one more burden he needed to shoulder, and waited until the feeling passed.

In this way he had successfully managed for the past five years to settle into a life of true emotional intimacy with Bones—chalking up their failed romance as the closest he would ever come to real love—and passing carnal companionship with anyone else able to catch his eye. And he had really, truly been content.

That is, until now.

Jim sat back up, his breath steady once more, his body slightly chilled in the cool of the evening now that his sweat had dried. He stood up and put his jacket back on, resuming his uphill walk.

Jim could see the future in his mind, the effects his present actions would take if held to their current course. He would make up with Bones and they would resume their friendship as they always did. He'd figure out how to free Spock from Amanda's attempts to harm him; at the same time Spock's presence would help to reconcile the horrors sifting subconsciously in his own mind and free him from the nightmares manifesting there.

He would bare all to Spock and tell him everything, absolutely everything, about how and why Pike had come to hire him and all the little white lies he had been using as a cover since the moment they had first met. He anticipated some hurt feelings and perhaps even anger (and to be honest, the thought of seeing Spock angry intrigued him), but was positive that once Spock had listened to the logic behind what he had done he would surely forgive him; if not, Jim was prepared to go into full out wooing mode until he did.

That accomplished, Spock would throw over Pike in his own Spockian way; Jim wasn't quite sure what that would look like, but imagined a clinical yet respectful conversation in neutral tones over dinner, possibly at Ernie's or someplace similar. Pike would be furious at them both for a time, and rightfully so; Jim planned to give him all the time he needed to accept it, hoping that someday it would become water under the bridge for all of them. He and Spock would date after Pike was officially out of the picture, going as fast or as slow as Spock wanted; for once in his life Jim had enough confidence in a relationship's future to savor it, to slowly dip his toes into the proverbial pool instead of diving in headfirst.

And after that he and Spock would, what, skip off into the sunset together, to a life full of rainbows and blue skies, not a single cloud on the horizon?

Jim didn't have a good answer for that, wryly noting that the skeptical, sarcastic voice of reason inside his head sounded an awful lot like Bones. He had, however, learned the hard way that it was crucial for him to face the reality of things; if he wanted this relationship with Spock to work it needed to start off right, no illusions, no fantasies. His history with Bones had taught him that, and their altercation tonight had been an excellent reminder.

He didn't know much about what their future would be like together, other than the obvious fact that it wouldn't be easy. It didn't take a genius to see just how hopelessly convoluted and tangled things were, and that was before you added their differing personalities and interests to the mix. But one thing he did know for certain: he didn't need the promise of eternally blue skies filled to the brim with sunsets and rainbows; grey stormy overcast ones would do just fine. He just needed Spock beside him, hand in hand, safe and whole, his face breaking out into a subtle smile, his brown eyes brimming with untold mysteries that Jim would gladly spend the rest of his life solving. He only needed Spock; everything else could sort itself out how it damn well wanted.

It was funny, but Jim was beginning to suspect that between the two of them, Spock had not been the one in the greatest need of rescue after all.

::

Author's Notes:

• Scotty asks Midge about the habit of slipping things under doors too; she responded the same way Bones does, though he of course uses more swears.

• A lot of the Beats were completely enamored by the music of Charlie Parker. I thought a nice shoutout to him, with Bones having it in his collection and Jim approving of the choice, would be nice.

• The whole "detect an undercurrent" thing, with the way Jimmy Stewart says it plus the little gesture he does with his hand, is one of my faves in Vertigo. Absolutely wanted to include it in some form.

• The whole Midge inviting Scottie over for dinner and a movie is in Vertigo as well.

• I have no clue if Bones cooking or not cooking is in ST canon, but I added it anyway, as I wanted to establish early on that the boy can cook. When I studied abroad in Europe there were crepe vendors everywhere, so I figured it to be a dish he could pick up if he tried and would tie back nicely to their early relationship during the war. (Plus my SF friend took me to a crepe restaurant while I visited her, yum; Bones is using the exact same crepe ingredients that I ordered in my buckwheat crepes, hah.)

• The biggest difference in this bit from the movie is the omittance of the painting that Midge does as a joke, which Scottie is abhorred by. I just didn't see Bones doing something coy like that, it didn't fit his personality to me. Berating Jim over his choices and being gruff about it, however, to the point where it turns into a full blown argument? Oh yeah baby. So he has that in spades in this chapter.

• Stockton and Geary is the intersection at Union Square that was shot in the movie.


	9. Chapter 9

It was a long walk back to Jim's apartment since there were no cable cars running at that hour to help him; he reached his door just as the sky was beginning to lighten from an inky black to a murkier blue-grey, signaling the breaking of dawn.

Jim wolfed some food down, showered, changed into his pajamas, and threw himself ungracefully into bed. His mind, weary from the lack of sleep, the extensive exercise, and the pondering of weighty issues, gratefully slipped into a deep, blissful slumber.

Jim experienced another night of nightmare-less dreams (fantastic) until he was woken up by the doorbell ringing (not so much.) Bleary-eyed, he glanced over at the clock and saw that it was still the crack of dawn. Grumbling, he stumbled out of bed, threw on his robe, and went to answer the door, planning a loud and long stream of expletives aimed at whatever idiot had the gall to wake him up at such a Godforsaken hour.

Any and all curses died on his lips, however, when he saw it was Spock standing on his doorstep, slightly pale and looking his own unique version of anxious. The man was too courteous to go around bothering people in the middle of the night; something must be seriously wrong.

"I am sorry to wake you at such an inconvenient hour," he said as his eyes took in Jim's disheveled form; Jim ran a hand through his messy hair, suddenly a whole lot less groggy and a whole lot more self-conscious. "But it was urgent that I see you. Something...has happened."

As the fog of sleep finally started to lift, Jim realized that Spock didn't merely look upset; he looked completely and utterly broken. The slumped shoulders, the clenched jaw, the haggard face that looked every inch that of someone fifty years old were enough of a tell, but it was Spock's eyes that revealed the deeper story. Dark with fear and desolation, haunted in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with Amanda, they revealed a sorrow that bit all the way down to the bone. It was similar to the desperate look he had worn yesterday at Cypress Point, when for a moment it looked like he would try to jump into the surf, and it made the warning bells inside Jim's head go off in alarm.

Fully awake now, adrenaline pumping as his concern for the man took over, Jim opened the door wide and motioned for Spock to enter; he did so slowly, haltingly, agitation robbing him of his usual grace as he crossed the threshold. Unable to resist being the gentleman where Spock was concerned, Jim pressed a hand to the small of the man's back and guided him over to the sofa, settling him on the section closest to the fireplace.

Jim hurried to relight the fire and provide some external warmth for a man who inwardly looked chilled to the bone. As he waited for the logs to catch fire he sensed eyes upon him. Shooting a furtive look in Spock's direction presented him with two troubled eyes, drinking him in by the bucketful with a fierce desperation, their gaze longing in a way that defied description.

To have someone you love stare as you with that kind of passion is usually flattering; however Jim was quickly finding that Spock had a horrible gift for flipping his ideas of suitable facial expressions upside down. More tragic than amorous, it was the kind of gaze you gave a lover before you were mowed down by a train: unabashedly naked with emotion, absorbing all of them that you can while you are still conscious and breathing.

Jim didn't know how to feel about that, and to his surprise what it did end up making him feel was extremely pissed off. Where the hell did Spock get off looking so gloomy and resigned about the whole thing? What right did he have to look at Jim that way? Jim hadn't helped win battles against the Nazis and San Francisco's toughest crime syndicates only to lose a war now against some tiny ghost of a woman who couldn't just let her son live in peace. Amanda hadn't claimed Spock yet; he had no right to act as if she would, as if he was so sure they would fail.

He straightened back up and pointedly glared at Spock, letting him know with his eyes that he wasn't having any of it. As soon as Spock noticed he raised one brow, then quickly averted his eyes to stare at the flames in front of them; they had finally taken to the logs and were flickering to life at last. It was still dark enough that the light from the fire cast shifting shadows along the angles of Spock's face, highlighting once again the profile that Jim so loved.

A miserably downcast profile. Damn, Spock looked sad. Jim sighed in frustration as his annoyance dissipated. He felt a tinge of regret for acting like an ass when the man had come here to be comforted and helped, not glared at. He should be doing what he could to ask questions and be supportive; some would-be boyfriend he was shaping out to be.

He collapsed back onto the couch and decided that perhaps a glass each of liquid fortification might do them both a world of good. "Do you want something to take the edge off, Spock? I know you don't usually drink, but you _really_ look like you could use a finger or two of the hard stuff right about now. Seriously."

Spock continuing to stare at the fire, obviously working very hard to reign his emotions in. "I am perfectly fine, Jim. There is no need for me to engage in spirits in order to strengthen my resolve."

Liar. "It's no problem, really. You can pretend it's medicine if you want." As he moved to get up, Spock's arm shot out and caught him by the wrist; at the action Jim halted immediately.

"Do not leave. Please." God, those eyes; Jim hated seeing them look so torn. He reached out and placed his remaining hand on top of Spock's, squeezing gently; some of the tension seemed to vanish in Spock's expression, which Jim took as a small victory.

"I don't plan on going anywhere, Spock. I just think that having a good stiff drink in you will help steady your nerves a little, and I am more than willing to provide you with said drink. And don't even _try_ pretending you are fine; you are a horrible, horrible liar and you know it, your eyes always give you away. I'm going over to the table to get you a brandy; I'll be in your line of vision the whole time, I promise."

Spock looked at him a moment, considering, then gave the slightest of nods. Jim gave him a reassuring smile in return and stood, slowly detangling his hands from Spock's grasp. He quickly poured them both drinks and returned to the couch, handing one of the brandies over before settling back into his previous spot.

He watched Spock drink the alcohol quickly, only showing the slightest of reactions as it burned down his throat. When he was done he lightly set the empty glass on the coffee table and repositioned himself to face Jim. "Thank you."

"No problem." Jim took the opportunity to reach over and gently entwine their fingers together; it might be selfishly altruistic of him, but the man seemed to find his touch reassuring, and Jim was nothing if not a giver. He squeezed Spock's hand and gave him an expectant look, signaling that he was ready to listen and be of help if he could. Spock squeezed gently back, softly cleared his throat, and began.

"The dream came back last night. But this time I perceived an alteration; when I walked along the corridor the shadows were lifted from the fragments in the mirror, and I could clearly see the scenes depicted in them." Jim brightened; that was a good thing, it meant they could probably gather more clues. "In the first fragment I could identify the woman sitting alone in the room. It was...my mother." Spock paused and closed his eyes, fighting off the emotions stemming from that revelation. He reopened them after a moment and continued. "She stood up from her chair and approached the large window as always; from her viewpoint I could see out onto the street at the city beyond. But the skyline looked different than it does today."

Jim wasn't surprised; if big cities were good at one thing it was changing, and a lot could happen in a a twenty to fourty year span of time in San Francisco. "What else did you see?"

"In another fragment I saw her standing on a lawn by a house, watching a small boy play." Spock paused again, and Jim understood why; seeing yourself the way your mother saw you, through her own eyes, would be shocking realization on the best of days; even harder when you have no recollection of such a memory ever occurring from your point of view. "A second floor window is visible behind her, directly above the font entranceway; it is an external view of the window from the previous fragment. Across the street, the same small park is visible. The house sits at the corner of an intersection, but I cannot tell which one."

Jim's mind was whirring, putting newly formed pieces of the puzzle together; a shape began to emerge from the clutter of extraneous information. "Describe the house and location."

Spock closed his eyes again, turning his mind inward as he concentrated on the details. "Old but well cared for. Very large, with grey wooden siding and large bay windows. Surrounding it is a back wrought-iron fence with steps and a path leading up to the front door on the left. There is a green lawn in front with a slight incline, just large enough for the boy to play in, with a handful of palm trees. Across the street and facing the house is the park, set into a hilly area, and across the intersection diagonally is an immense church."

And suddenly just like that, the different pieces of his investigation—the facts Uhura had given him, the things Spock had revealed, and his own knowledge of the city—clicked into place in Jim's mind, and he finally understood.

The house was the key.

Chiding himself for not figuring it out sooner, he slid closer to Spock and gripped the man's hands hands tightly, eyes brimming over with excitement. "Eddy and Gough."

Spock opened his eyes and stared at Jim, his face betraying not a small amount of confusion. Jim tried to sort through the thoughts flitting across his mind so he could explain them in a way that would make sense, would help Spock understand.

"There is an old house on Eddy and Gough, just south of Japantown; it's across from Jefferson Square and kitty corner to St. Paul's. I'd bet my life that the house in your dream and that house are one and the same."

Amanda had dragged Spock's body all over the City and beyond, to places with even the slightest connection to her old life with her son and husband, to the person she had once been. Hell, they had even visited a _painting_ of her in some stuffy museum. But not once had she made Spock wander over to that house. What was it about that place that was making her keep Spock away? Jim's eyes shone with the excitement of discovery, his mind already ten steps ahead and on to planning the next task. "We have to go there."

Spock abruptly disentangled their fingers and stood up, quickly walking over to the window and looking out at the city in the growing light, his back to Jim. He clasped his hands behind his back and stood there for a moment, deep in thought. "No, we do not."

Jim stared at him over the back of the couch. "What?"

"I do not wish to go, and I see no reason to compel myself to do so."

He'd assumed that Spock was an intelligent man when he'd fallen in love with him; surely there was no need to rethink that assumption? Surely he understood what Jim was trying to say? "Maybe you should go because Amanda doesn't _want_ you to, because she has hidden the memories of that place from you for some reason. Aren't you the slightest bit curious as to why she would do that? If going there helps you recover your memories from the dream and destroys her hold over you, which is _exactly_ what I believe will happen, then isn't going there for an hour or two worth your freedom?"

"We have no proof that it is the same house." Spock was choosing to be stubborn.

"We also have no proof that it's _not_." He was tangling with the wrong man; Jim's stubbornness—some would go so far as do call it pigheadedness—was legendary.

Spock remained motionless, the only movement a slight tightening of his hands behind his back in agitation. "Why are you doing this, Jim?"

Jim blinked in surprise at the unexpected question. "Doing what?"

Spock shifted his head slightly in Jim's direction, though he did not turn around, taking several moments to formulate a response. "Helping me, trying to save me. Over the past two days I have considered just how much I have been altering your life, and have come to the conclusion that it has not been for the better, at least not for you. In fact, I have even been entertaining the idea that it might have been better if we had never met at all."

Jim was stunned; as far as he was concerned this was all coming out of left field, blindsiding him. He was sure his mouth was hanging open but didn't care. "What are you talking about? If we had never met, you would most likely be dead by now, drowned in the Bay, remember?"

"I am aware of that. I do not believe it would have been such a terrible thing, my dying."

In a flash Jim was up out of the sofa and next to Spock, turning him roughly so they were face-to-face, his hands digging into the man's shoulders. "I dare you to say that to my face. I _dare_ you."

Spock's eyes widened slightly at Jim's ferocity, then clamped back down again. "What good have I brought to your world, Jim, that merits such an impassioned response on my behalf? I have put you in harm's way—"

"If you mean my fishing you out of the Bay, there was absolutely _no_ chance that rescuing you would have killed me. I'm a strong swimmer, I was never in any real danger."

Spock looked like he didn't believe him. "I have been a great inconvenience to you; you have rearranged your life over the past few days to spend time with me, time that would have been better spent on yourself and your own personal interests."

Jim couldn't very well say that Spock _was_ his own personal interest; it sounded too creepy. He scoffed instead. "Please, like I had some great schedule planned with better things to do? I'm a professional wanderer, if you recall. I _chose_ to be with you, Spock, and if my not unimpressive memory serves me correctly, I am sure that _I_ was the one who first insisted that we spend the day together. I willingly signed myself up for the ride, I _wanted_ to be with you."

Spock looked like he wanted to deny it, knew he could not. Jim grinned at the silence. "You see? You are worth being with, Spock, whether you realize it or not. Now tell me what else you think you've done to upset my life so badly, so that I can swiftly toss the rest of your ridiculous excuses into the dumpster and we can end this 'I should have died' crap you are trying to pull."

Spock paused for a moment, trying no doubt to formulate a suitable argument. "My problems have distracted you from working on yours, from discovering a way to cure your acrophobia. Surely you will concede that point to me."

Jim grinned. "Now that's the best one of all, Spock, it really is. I never told you this because I wanted to be certain, but there's really no need to hide it anymore. You remember that nightmare I'd been having, the one where my partner keeps falling off of the roof and I'm helpless to save him?" Spock nodded. "Well, ever since I've been spending time with you, I haven't had the nightmare once. Not once! Do you know what that means?" Spock shook his head, eyes wide again with surprise. "It means that being with you is helping to stop the nightmares somehow, helping me to heal. I don't know if it's from having a mystery to solve again and putting my detective skills back to good use, or whether it's just from having your presence around to calm me, and frankly I don't care. So you see, while I'm helping destroy the demon inside of _you_, you are helping destroy the one inside of _me_."

Jim slid his hands down Spock's arms until they reached the man's hands, squeezed them and didn't let go. He grew nervous, afraid to express the words emanating from the paths his thoughts were going down, even more afraid not to. "I need you, Spock. But it's more than that, so much more. I...I _love_ you. In a way I've never loved anyone before. And I think that's what's been helping me the most of all."

And there they were, the words he had been thinking for a while now but afraid to say, laid bare at the feet of the man he was sure he could no longer live without.

Spock squeezed his hands back, drew closer. "I love you too, Jim."

Jim stared at him in amazement; it was a heady feeling, having those words repeated back with a deepness that mirrored his own. The two of them stared at each other for a long moment, equally awestruck. Jim felt brave enough at that moment to do anything, go anywhere, as long as Spock was next to him and looking at him like this.

"You asked me why I wanted to help you, Spock. I'm afraid the answer is completely selfish; it's because I _want_ to, because that's what you do when you love someone. I will do whatever it takes to protect you, to prevent Amanda from taking you away from me. And maybe you don't see it right now, but I _know_ the house is the key to everything, and once we go over there you will begin to remember again. I'm sure of it. And when you do, for whatever reason it will destroy her once and for all. But you have to confront her head on to do it; you have to be brave."

Spock looked like he very much wanted to, for Jim's sake at least, but something was still holding him back. "I confess that my previous reticence was because the thought of such a confrontation frightens me. In the dream..."

Jim looked closely at him, realization hitting. "Did you reach the end of the corridor again?"

Spock closed his eyes as if in pain. "Almost." Jim used one of his hands to soothingly trace the side of Spock's face, his neck. Spock leaned into the touch, eyes still closed, and Jim's breath caught in his throat. "I cannot predict what might happen if I should go to the house, what I might be forced to do. It is...distressing."

"You do realize I'll be there right, by your side the whole time if necessary? I won't let anything happen to you, I won't let her kill you. _Please_ tell me you know that."

Spock opened his eyes again. "I know." He seemed surprised by the revelation, obviously moved in spite of his fear.

Jim smiled. "I'm glad." He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Spock's in the barest of kisses, pleased when Spock kissed him back, practically mashing their mouths together with enthusiasm, opening his mouth and doing indescribable things with his tongue that set off jolts of light and heat in Jim's brain.

After they broke apart, Jim could see that the fear had finally lifted from Spock's eyes, replaced with affection and trust. "So? Have you made a final decision?"

Spock sighed in resignation. "Yes. I've decided I will indeed go."

Jim grinned; he might be whipped romantically by a man twice his age, but he was able to still pull out the old Kirkian power of persuasion as necessary. Which meant, really, that Spock was just as whipped as he was; good to know. "Glad to hear it. Be back here around noon, and we'll head off to the house together."

Spock nodded, eyes wide and warm, looking at him as if the were the only one in the world with the ability to help him, to save him.

If he had wanted to, Jim realized, watching from the doorstep as the Jaguar drove away, Spock could have gone to Pike with his problems, but he had come here instead; Jim tried not too feel too smug about that; decent men did not gloat over such things, and as his mother had always told him, if a Kirk was one thing and one thing only he was decent. He was only partially successful, however, in tamping down his feelings, so as he shut his door and headed back to his bedroom he tried to focus his thoughts on what the gesture of Spock coming over here might mean.

It meant, he realized, flinging off his robe and crawling back under the sheets, that Spock had faith in Jim, that he trusted him to see this thing through and help Spock emerge victorious on the other side. Well, Jim wasn't about to let him down.

Not when Spock was so close to being free.

•

Spock had been sitting in the same chair for almost a half hour now, and Jim wasn't sure how much longer he could stand it.

The ride to the house on Eddy and Gough had started out fine; Spock had arrived back on his doorstep at twelve sharp clad in his gray suit, the one he had worn the first day Jim had begun tailing him. (The one which also happened to be Jim's favorite, though there was no way Spock could have known that.) The man had seemed rather subdued and back to his usual tightly composed self; Jim chalked that up to steeling himself for the task at hand.

Jim had taken the wheel this time around, despite Spock's protests, arguing that it was because he knew the way and because he preferred being the driver. Both statements were true, of course, but he had purposely left one unsaid: that he wanted to be the one in control of the vehicle in case Amanda acted up again and in a fit of rage tried to take over the car. He might be in love and therefore more blind than he usually was on a case, but he liked to think he had the good sense to at least take _some_ precautions despite his compromised emotions.

To an unfamiliar outsider they would have looked just like two ordinary men going out for an afternoon drive. Spock kept looking over at him on the way to the house, as if trying to pull strength from him for whatever lay ahead; Jim flashed him a reassuring smile, projecting his hope for the best.

They had pulled up to the house—now labeled the McKittrick Hotel—and walked up to the door, Jim giving Spock plenty of time to stand on the front walkway to look things over, allow the memories to begin trickling in. He had no doubt that coming here would begin bursting the dam of memories Amanda had locked away; Spock's surprised face as they reached the door and the sudden, momentary grip of a hand on his arm left him no doubt that he was on the right track.

"You were right, Jim. I...I remember this place." Jim smiled in delight and opened the door for them.

The manageress of the McKittrick—blonde, remarkably attractive, a no-nonsense air about her, introduced herself as Janice Rand—had not been very hospitable at first to his request to wander the place, even with Jim flashing one of his blinding smiles. Flashing his old police credentials, however, had finally done the trick. (He knew he really, _really_ should return them soon, but at least for today was glad he hadn't bothered.) She had told him that since pretty much all the tenants were out, she didn't see the harm of them taking a look around, but that the two of them couldn't take all day. Once Jim had nodded in agreement, she had taken a big snarl of keys out from the desk drawer and led them around the house, opening up doors at Spock's request and ushering them inside.

They had started downstairs and worked their way up. The rooms were no longer as they had been, of course, modernized into small apartments by the inexorable hand of progress, but the rich wood accents and intricate architectural details of the once regal house still remained. Spock stood in each room for a few moments and murmured to Jim all that he could recall; through his descriptions Jim was able to piece together a glimpse of what it would have been like to have the run of this place as a child, how the love and happiness and treasured possessions that once filled this place up might have made it seem not as dark and cavernous as it did in its present condition.

The main hallway, where Amanda would greet Sareku at the door every night with a kiss. The parlor, where Spock would practice the shamisen and piano with his mother's voice accompanying him. His father's study, were he learned Japanese vocabulary and grammar at his father's desk, his mother looking on in fascination. The library, where he would peer in and see his mother curled up in an armchair by the fireplace, or over by the window seat, absorbed in one of her classics, oblivious to his or anyone else's presence. The conservatory, where Spock swore the smell of her potted flowers still lingered, nurtured by her own hand, Spock doing his best to assist her despite his tiny size. The kitchen, where at Christmastime the two of them baked sugar cookies together, the servants watching them from the corner in amusement. His bedroom, where Amanda would tell him stories and lullabies from both Japan and America before she tucked him in each night. His parent's bedroom, where he would watch his mother put on her final touches at the dressing table before she and Sareku headed out for the evening. The backyard, where Spock and Amanda had sometimes lunched on a blanket together, a picnic basket overflowing with food beside them.

Each room and the subsequent memories it stirred up made the guard that Spock had tightly cloaked around himself slip away bit by bit; much like a curtain being raised on a stage, each newly visible inch of emotion that peeked through revealed more and more previously hidden wonders of Spock's personality. Jim knew he should be watching Spock with more concern, but it was hard to stay stoic when the man looked like he was about to burst with curiosity and wonder.

But it was when they came to the small room resting on the second floor above the main entrance that Spock had his strongest reaction. After taking a long look around the room, both brows arching, eyes opening wide, he had sat in a chair by the bed—the chair he was now occupying—and had not stirred a muscle. Jim had asked the manageress if they could have a moment alone in the room; she had given him a stern look but had nodded and disappeared.

For over half an hour now Spock had been sitting there motionless, silent as a tomb, providing no details of the memories this room contained, not acknowledging Jim's presence, hands gripping the pants of his grey suit.

Jim had given the room a curious once-over when he had first entered; small but cozy with rich dark wood accents, a small marble fireplace, attractive yet simple furniture, and once handsome walls now in desperate need of repapering. He had then positioned himself in a corner where he could watch Spock without disturbing the man too much.

For the past half hour he had seen a multitude of emotions swirl and race through Spock, sometimes just below the surface, visible only through his eyes, sometimes strong enough to cause his usually subdued features to twitch with reactions Jim had no hope of deciphering. The grey film over his eyes was there, as foggy as a San Francisco morning, which meant Amanda was with them. Jim wondered what Spock was trying to remember, what Amanda was furiously trying to suppress. The strength of the grey in Spock's eyes came and went as they battled; Jim steeled himself in case Amanda completely took over and he was forced to do something desperate to stop her. But at last the grey in Spock's eyes was dulling, fading to a browner color that didn't send Jim's pulse racing with worry. Spock seemed to be regaining control, or Amanda's power over him was weakening; Jim wished he knew which.

Taking it no longer he approached Spock cautiously, like a hiker encountering a wild deer he was afraid of startling, kneeling down beside him and looking up into his stony face.

"Spock?" His voice seemed to awaken something; the man shivered for a moment, as if breaking himself from a deep sleep, then turned his head to focus semi-cloudy eyes on Jim. "Where are you now?" Jim was almost tempted to ask "when" but stopped himself.

Spock smiled at him fondly, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners, irises turning browner still. "Here with you."

Jim smiled back, almost breaking out into a grin, relieved to find Spock somewhat present and coherent. Amanda had not taken him; she had fought for him hard over the past half hour, and she had not won. Spock was indeed stronger than he knew; when this was over Jim swore that he would remind him of that every single day. "What do you remember about this room? It's the same as the one in your dream, isn't it?"

Spock nodded. "You powers of perception are quite astute." Spock looked down at him, eyes shining, awe clearly written on his face. "I remember her, Jim, I remember my mother. I remember everything." He turned his head and lovingly ran his gaze over the walls, the furniture. "This was my mother's favorite room, her private study. The bed is a new development, but much of the room remains as it was. Her most beloved books were stored here, her crafts, her Victrola. I can remember her putting on her favorite records and working to them while I played or studied on the floor beside her; opera, classical music mostly. I remember her knitting sweaters beside the fireplace, aware that they were being made for me. Or her writing letters to friends, making and wrapping presents, reading her favorite stories to me out loud while acting out the parts. And both of us waiting patiently, my face pressed to the window, to see father arrive home from work so we could both greet him at the door." Spock stopped talking all of a sudden, eyes fever-bright with emotion.

Jim wondered what it would be like to have no recollection of his own mother, and then one day just walk into a house, into a room just like this, and have it all come pouring back in, returning to his mind as if it had never left. Wondered if he would have been able to remain as composed as Spock currently was, or if he would have broken down and begun weeping uncontrollably, overwhelmed by it all. He was awfully glad he would never have to find out.

He placed his hands on Spock's thigh, hoping the man would sense the projected solidarity and find comfort in his touch. "She sounds like an amazing woman."

Spock nodded. "She was."

Jim was about to press him further when a light rapping was heard at the door. Jim was up and over on the other side of the room in an instant, far away from Spock when the manageress entered the room.

"Everything okay in here?" She asked in that tone that only mothers or the people who ran hotels could properly possess.

She really was very attractive. A few short weeks ago, Jim would have flirted with her shamelessly, working every ounce of Kirkian skill he had to melt that professional exterior of hers and try and get her to go out with him. But a lot of things can change in a few weeks; instead he just smiled at her in a very charming way and moved towards her, his eyes going to her face instead of lingering over other parts of her. "We're doing great, thanks."

She smiled back, not a true smile but friendly enough. "Good. I don't want to rush you but I wanted to make you aware of the time, since I don't know when my tenant will be back."

"Thank you very much," said a voice over Kirk's shoulder; both of them turned to see Spock standing up and turning around to face them. He was once more his pristinely unruffled self, his emotions as smooth and well pressed as his suit. "I do not think we need to take up any more of your valuable time; we can vacate the premises at your earliest convenience."

The manageress looked at him in surprise, but smiled and nodded in relief. She ushered them back down the immense staircase and to the front door, thanking them for stopping by in a superficially polite manner. Jim found he didn't blame her; if he ran a hotel, he would want to get oddities like the two of them out of it as soon as feasibly possible.

Once they were settled back in the car and once more had a modicum of privacy he turned towards the passenger seat to look at Spock, triumphant; to his great surprise he found the man lost in his own thoughts, and if he was reading the frown on his face right incredibly unhappy. Which was completely baffling; Spock had his memories back, Amanda was safely at bay; what could possibly be upsetting about that? Spock was looking down at his lap, his delicate fingers twisting together nervously, his lips tight across his mouth, his face somewhat strained. Jim hated the feeling of alarm that began creeping back into his gut.

"Spock? What's wrong?"

The man snapped his head over towards the drivers seat as if he was surprised to see Jim there. "I...I don't...I can't..." His voice sounded different, the cadence and pitch unusual. He looked poised to say something, then thinking better of it switched gears at the last moment; sighing, he realigned his features into an expression of tranquility, all traces of his previous sorrow removed. "I am finding that I cannot sense my mother's presence anymore. It is...strangely unsettling."

Jim looked closely at his eyes; they looked all right, back to their normal chocolate brown, no trace of possession in them at all. "To not have her inside of you anymore is disturbing?"

"I am not describing my feelings accurately, but yes."

His voice was back to normal again, his eyes once more calm. Jim settled back and relaxed again, thinking he understood what Spock was trying to express.

"It's ironic, isn't it? All this time we've been working to extract Amanda from your mind; now that you have your memories of her back and can recall how loving she was, you kind of wish she was here." He shifted nervously. "Have I got it right?"

Spock looked into his eyes and cracked the tiniest of smiles; even though it didn't quite reach is eyes Jim was happy to see it there. "That is one way to describe it, yes."

Jim reached over and placed a hand on Spock's shoulder. "I'm sorry you had to lose her twice, even though the second time was for your own good."

"Was it?" He caught Jim's furious gaze and quickly backpedaled. "I didn't mean that."

"I damn well hope not." Jim moved his hand from Spock's shoulder to the back of his neck. "How do you feel, really? I'm not moving the car an inch until you tell me." He pretended that last part didn't sound anything like the way his mother would have said it.

Spock flicked his eyes to the side in a slightly furtive manner. "Refreshed at finding space inside my head I did not know I had been without. Tired, but once again myself."" He sank back into the seat cushions, and closed his eyes; if he were prone to outward sounds of emotion Jim was sure he would have sighed. "Thank you for bringing me here. I'm still...I _am_ still in disbelief that perhaps this long...travail might be over. It seems almost impossible."

Jim grinned and softly ran his fingers through the short hair at the back of Spock's neck, pleased to see him shiver the tiniest bit at the touch. "Well, I'm no doctor or exorcist, so we'll probably need to wait a few days to be certain she's really and truly gone. But I think, if you can't sense her anymore, that things are looking up for you...for us."

Spock opened his eyes and looked over at him with a sudden intensity that was overwhelming. "I wish I felt the same way."

The cadence of his voice was off again; Jim attributed that to stress. He smiled and planted a quick kiss on the grey temple that was closest to him. "You will. Maybe not today, but definitely soon, I'll make sure of it." He fired up the car and pulled it out onto the road. "Anywhere in particular you want to go?"

Spock looked straight ahead, his face a mask. "A million miles away from here."

I tiny laugh burst from Jim's lips. "Sounds good, we'll have to plan to do that sometime. I meant to celebrate; anywhere in particular sound good?"

Spock stiffened slightly. "We..." He paused for a moment, reworked what he wanted to say. "Would the Japanese Tea Garden be a suitable place?"

Jim nodded. "Absolutely."

Spock looked over at him; Jim was busy turning a corner so he didn't get to glance over and see his expression. "It was only a suggestion; I would be perfectly satisfied if we headed someplace else. I have been consistently refusing your suggestions for locations we should visit; I understand if you wish to do the same."

The corner of Jim's mouth quirked up in amusement. "Well, lucky for you I think your suggestion is a good one, as I happen to like the gardens. We can wander around them for a bit and you can explain the finer details of the place to me." A thought struck him and made him grin outright. "And then we'll have some tea and toast to your success!"

An expression of fond exasperation flitted across Spock's otherwise stoic face. "That sounds like an excellent plan, Jim."

Jim beamed. "Of course it is, I'm the one who came up with it." He changed direction at the next intersection, heading north towards the Park.

It had been a good day, he decided. The trip to the house had been a triumph; Spock had gotten to go to the house he grew up in, relive the memories with his mother that he had lost, and was no longer being tormented by her ghost. Surely whatever hold Amanda had wrangled over him was gone; Spock might not be able to admit that now, but over the coming days he was sure that he would.

But just as important to Jim was that they had finally admitted that they loved each other. He had no doubt now how Spock felt about him, and he had made it crystal clear to Spock what his own feelings were. That those feelings mirrored each other, that they could now focus on their own relationship without the specter of Amanda hanging over them; well, that was also cause for celebration. Jim tapped his foot a little bit heavier on the accelerator, speeding them even faster towards the Park, impatient for the next chapter of his life with Spock to begin.

So it was unfortunate that in his exuberance he missed the look of dread that slowly crept across Spock's face and settled into place the closer they got to their destination.

::

Author's Notes:

• For anyone actually reading this and caring if I post each week (does such a person exist?), sorry this is cutting it so close to midnight to be posted! I had actual changes from my beta beyond typos to fix and have had my attention sucked away by the Olympics and fam for most of the day. It is a curse, but I love them so, gah.

• The house on Eddy and Gough is gone, sadly destroyed by the progress of time. It looks like it was positively magnificent in real life, though of course with the way Hitch shoots it it just looks ominous and creepy.

• Okay, so the whole Jim flashing his credentials thing reveals my true lack of knowing police protocol. Scottie flashes them in the movie, after he has supposedly quit the force; my Jim does the same. But I swear in police procedurals I have seen they make a big deal about "turning in your gun and badge." Wouldn't they have made Scottie/Jim do this? Ugh. I erred on the side of Vertigo, but I still feel like he would NOT have actually had a badge to flip out in the hotel scene.

• I originally planned on putting Sulu into the McKittrick hotel scene, as the hotel manager, because in Vertigo the "manageress" (lol old term) mentions her plants and Sulu is horticulturally minded. I put two and two together. But I needed someone for Jim to talk to in the garden when he is first doing his investigations, so I moved Sulu to that spot, and I think he is much happier there. :) But that move required a new character to play the manageress. Cupcake makes a cameo later on, and my decision to include him there bumped Janice Rand out of the lineup as a shopgirl. So yay, she gets to fill in the empty spot here instead! I don't know if you guys are rolling your eyes at the cameos or loving them, but they make this ten times more fun to write, so hopefully you are experiencing the latter.

* Apparently if you are a San Franciscan and you tell someone you are going to "the park", it is assumed you mean Golden Gate Park, because of its immenseness and awesomeness. So if I say "the Park" in my fic and it is capitalized, that is what I am referring to.


	10. Chapter 10

Jim was the kind of guy who thought ten steps ahead; so by the time they stepped into the shadows of the large wooden entrance gate to the Japanese Tea Garden, bracing themselves against the cool wind that had suddenly sprung up from out of nowhere, he'd already planned out how the rest of the evening would go.

They would wander the gardens together, Spock occasionally taking a moment to point out some little detail or other of the garden, the slow, deep rhythms of his soft voice intoxicating. Like a lovestruck teenager out with his best girl, Jim would find opportunities to discretely slip his hand into Spock's as if he'd been doing it all his life, his lips lightly brushing the soft cartilage of an ear as he whispered intimate sentiments into the delicate shell. If anyone saw them and called them out on their behavior, Jim would smile politely back at them and cheerfully tell them to go to hell before he and Spock were kicked out; but as Jim was a stealthy man—being an ex-detective meant he had eyes on the back _and_ sides of his head—he anticipated no such moments marring their perfect afternoon. Before closing time struck they would retire to the tea pagoda for a toast, drinking in each other with the same fervor they would have for the warm, richly herbed beverages in their hands.

If Spock had nothing set for the evening, Jim would try to coax him into visiting his first ever jazz club; considering how jubilated he felt it seemed like the perfect night to head over to the Black Hawk and get the man's feet wet in the greatest music known to man. He had no doubt that Spock would be perceptive to its charms; seriously, how could he _not_ be? If the music made them feel like getting some actual dancing in, they could hit up a gay-friendly bar like the Black Cat before the night was over. And then Jim would take Spock home, dropping him off at the door like a perfect gentleman, with a not-so-chaste kiss that would blow Spock's mind to end the night. (He might be head over heels in love with the man, and he might be working his hardest to be somewhat proper and take things slow, but he _did_ have a reputation to maintain, dammit.)

If Spock _did_ had plans—most likely with Pike, the idea of which Jim tried to ignore—Jim would make his way over to McCoy's and attempt to make up with his best friend, dangling the promise of attending a poetry reading over his head like a proverbial carrot. Jim had been too wrapped up in following Spock over the last few weeks to bother checking up on the Bay area Beat scene, but he was sure it must be fairly buzzing now that the idiotic obscenity trial was over and the court had ruled in Ferlinghetti's favor. Bones always jumped at a chance to hear poetry read live, and Jim for some reason liked it too—he suspected it was all the spontaneity and chaos and cussing that did it for him—so he could think of no better way to get into his best friend's good graces again. They would stumble home drunk—whose home didn't matter—reciting their favorite lines of the evening and making a public nuisance of themselves, reveling in the spirit of the night and of their newly restored friendship.

In short, no matter which way the winds blew, Jim had planned out a perfect day.

Ready to move his plan forward, he turned back to ask Spock where he wanted to head to first, only to find the man staring back out the front gate, lost in thought, a troubled look of what seemed to be longing marring his face. "Spock?"

The man's gaze lingered for a moment longer, then turned to meet his. "Yes Jim?"

"Where to first?" Jim wanted to ask him what has just flashed through his mind but thought better of it.

Spock met his gaze, his eyes opaque walls of brown that betrayed nothing. "The moon bridge?"

Jim had no idea what that was but smiled. "Sounds like a plan." He followed along behind Spock as they headed left, passing through gentle mounds of green and over softly rustling streams of water. Looking around quickly and seeing the coast was clear, Jim brushed a hand into Spock's nearest palm and squeezed it lightly. Spock shivered slightly at the touch and cast his own furtive look around, but squeezed back oh-so-gently before releasing Jim's grip, taking a few moments to check his watch.

Then he suddenly stopped in the middle of the narrow path, causing Jim to bump into him and narrowly avoid falling into the small pond to their immediate left. Jim righted himself and looked to see what Spock was staring at, catching sight of the oddly shaped bridge he had passed by many times during his tailing sessions. Its dark wooden frame stood taller than a grown man, with seductive curves that begged the closest passerby to climb it at their own peril. Underneath it, flowing at a glacial pace, was a small pond-like stream of water.

"This giant thing is the moon bridge?"

Spock looked over at him and arched a brow. "You were not aware of its name?"

"Obviously not. What exactly makes it a moon bridge?"

Spock moved more to the right, gently encircling his fingers around Jim's wrist and tugging him along a few steps forward; Jim grinned and obliged him. "Do you see the reflection of the bridge in the water?" Jim nodded. "The bridge was built in the shape of a half circle. When looked at straight on like this, it merges with its reflection to form a perfect circle, like a full moon." He looked at Jim as if this was of vital importance. "Do you see? Viewed this way, with the water beneath it, the image is complete."

It was obvious from the slight shine in Spock's eyes as he stared at it that he found the bridge very appealing, either from its voluptuous shape, its symbolism, or a strange combination of the two. Jim studied the dark shape of the rounded bridge in the water, noting where the real and the reflected bridges bled together, and nodded. "I see the appeal. From any other angle though, it's still just one half of an incomplete illusion of a circle. A very captivating illusion, but an illusion nonetheless." As if to prove his point, he picked up a small smooth stone from the side of the path and with a flick of his wrist sent it skimming across the surface of the pond. It sunk somewhere directly beneath the bridge; the ripples that formed along the water's surface where the stone struck caused the illusion of the perfect circle to warp and shatter.

It was incredibly subtle, but out of the corner of his eye Jim saw Spock's face darken momentarily, as if he had just watched someone kick a puppy in the face. Jim looked over to get a better look and saw that, yes, Spock's jaw was clenched and his eyes were stormy. At seeing Jim studying him, one eyebrow cocked in obvious confusion, Spock smoothed out his expression, retreating inward once again.

"Shall we continue on to the main pond?" Jim wondered if, for a moment, Spock had been thinking about more than just bridges and reflections. He felt the need to apologize, but had no idea what for; instead he just nodded, not sure what if anything he had done wrong, and followed after the man.

They walked along the edge of the pond, following its wavy circle at a leisurely pace; Jim noted Spock check his watch once more. With some trepidation Jim took the man's hand again and squeezed, relieved to find the pressure reciprocated. Apparently whatever mistake he had made at the bridge was forgiven. Eager to strike up another conversation, he pointed to a pair of bronze cranes perched at the edge of the water, nestled under the sheltering boughs of a small tree. "Any significance attached to those two?"

Spock glanced over at them, his gaze scrutinizing the statues with a strange wistful sadness, as if they held a secret he longed to unravel. "Cranes are supposed to symbolize long life."

Confused at Spock's mixed reaction to a seemingly harmless set of garden decorations, Jim was unsure of what to say. "Ah" was all that came out. He watched a rather fat Koi fish travel in lazy circles around the edges of the pond near the cranes, its speckled body undulating back and forth, then drift away to the other side of the pond. Jim waited for Spock to add something else to the comment, or start up a conversation about something else symbolically placed around the ponds, but nothing came. A strange sort of distracting awkwardness seemed to settle between the two of them and the otherwise peaceful scene; the only sound to break up their silence was the rustling of the verdant foliage around them as a cool wind brushed past the leaves. Jim released Spock's hand to turn up the collar of his dark trench coat, thankful that he had decided to bring it along; a cool wind that had picked up now that the sun was beginning to set.

It was when they had completed their circle around the pond and began taking the slow incline up to the upper level of the garden, and Jim saw Spock sneak yet another glance at his watch, that a sense of foreboding washed over him, the kind he often got on a tough case when vital clues that he was missing lay just out of his line of sight. It was his cop's instincts at work; an irksome enough feeling during a case, let alone on a peaceful day like today.

Spock halted in the shadow of the small red gate, so Jim did too, this time not running into him since they were walking side by side. He looked over and was surprised; the darkness that had passed over Spock's features at the bridge had returned, its shadow marring the beautiful planes of his face.

Jim looked over to see what could be causing such a reaction and saw the five-tiered pagoda dead ahead, its scarlet shape bright against the green around it despite the dying sunlight. He followed Spock's lead and let his eyes travel up the length of the structure, trying to see what about it the man might deem offensive.

Sulu had told him on one of his many visits that there used to be a Shinto shrine where the pagoda now stood, torn down shortly after the war had started. The steep stone penance steps and the dark wooden Torii gate off to their right had once led up to it, marking it as a sacred space and inviting contemplation. He'd said that before the war the local Japanese families would often come here to offer prayers; Jim wondered if Spock could recall doing the same thing as a small boy with his mother and father now that his memories had returned, and if those memories accounted for the troubled expression on his face.

Jim's eyes lingered over the giant metal spike at the very top of the pagoda. He silently counted the nine rings attached to the spike, which Sulu had told him represented for buddhists the nine heavens and were supposed to ward off evil. A shiver went up and down his spine, as if someone had just walked across his grave; he adjusted the collar of his coat yet again, blaming his reaction on the wind.

Spock led Jim to the right of the pagoda and its small open space, past the Torii gate and the penance steps that were all that remained of the once glorious shrine. They settled next to each other on a small unobtrusive bench tucked away in a tiny section of the upper level, the pagoda at their backs and the Torii gate to their right. It afforded them a splendid view of the pond they had just circled. As if on cue, the clouds parted for a moment and allowed a small trickle of late afternoon sunlight to sneak past the grey. The light settled on the pond's surface and turned its blue-grey waters golden; the sudden beauty of it almost took Jim's breath away.

The softest of breezes was blowing, and it caused the bamboo around them to rustle. The two of them sat there, shoulders touching, staring out at the pond, the calmness of the garden settling over them. Jim let his hand fall next to Spock's, pleased when the man moved his hand to cover Jim's, squeezing it gently.

"Jim..." The word was said so softly that he almost missed it. He looked over to see Spock staring ahead blankly, something obviously weighing on his mind. "Back in the camp, there was a young man, a poet, that I befriended. He had the some love of jazz that you do, the same energetic spirit. I wish you could have met him; I think that that under the circumstances you would have liked each other very much."

The words came out soft and sad, the subject extremely out-of-the-blue; Jim blinked in surprise. The feeling of foreboding returned and he tried to brush it off. "Are you two still close?" He refused to allow any trace of envy to enter into his thoughts, as he had nothing to be jealous of. Most likely.

Spock shifted slightly in his seat. "Not anymore."

Something in that simple acknowledgement was heartrending. Jim shifted their fingers so he could squeeze the Spock's hand in sympathy. "I'm sorry. Why did he abandon your friendship?" Jim could not imagine being able to do anything of the sort, not to Spock.

A haunted expression ghosted over Spock's face, adding a sudden frailness to his features. "On the contrary; I abandoned _him_."

Jim stared at him in disbelief. "I don't believe for a minute that you'd be capable of driving someone you care about away like that."

Spock's eyes grew dark again, his voice bitter. "I think you'd be surprised at what I'm capable of, Jim."

His voice was all wrong again; the strange tone was back, the one that sounded nothing like the Spock that Jim knew and loved. Jim peered closer at him, a slightly bewildered expression on his face. "What on earth would make you say that?"

Spock stared out at the water as if he hadn't heard the question, his face still troubled. Something intense seemed to be trying to tear its way out of him, something he was desperately trying to suppress. Concerned, Jim pressed himself closer to Spock, pressing the fabric of his dark coat against the grey suit that Spock wore, hoping some of his warmth and energy would bleed in through the contact.

Spock turned his head to face Jim at last. The man's eyes bore so deeply into his that soon it felt like they were going to swallow him whole. He took his free hand and placed it on Jim's face, his thumb whispering along a cheek, then the side of a brow. "Do you remember what I told you yesterday about the camp out in the desert, what the artist said?"

Once again Jim blinked at the bizarreness of the question; his mind flashed back to their morning together in the cemetery, to Spock telling him about his time in Topaz. "Something about if you looked down at the dust you'd find despair, but if you looked up at the sky you'd find salvation?"

Spock's eyes shone with happiness and, strangely enough, an emotion awfully similar to hopelessness; the combination was unsettling. "You remembered; I'm glad. I need you to promise me something."

Jim nodded; if Spock needed his strength and reassurance, he would not hesitate to give it to him. "You should know by now you don't even need to ask. Whatever you want, you've got."

Spock swallowed. "I...I want you to keep those words from the camp close to you." Spock's eyes grew agitated, as if he were fighting some sort of internal struggle. "If something happens to me so that I can't be with you...if you lose me, I need you to remember those words when the time comes, and know without a shadow of a doubt that I loved you and wanted to go on loving you. Can you do that for me?"

A chill passed though Jim that had nothing to do with the wind. "Of course. But I don't plan on losing you, Spock, not ever."

Spock's mouth twisted up into a small smile, the love in his eyes almost succeeding in blocking out the pain.

The pit of Jim's stomach seemed to drop out, as suddenly he understood.

"You're leaving me, aren't you?"

It came out softer and more wistful than he had planned. Jim was bitterly aware they they had never been officially together, so he really had no right to phrase it like that. But the words seemed right. Spock closed his eyes as if he couldn't bear to witness Jim's reaction. "Yes."

Jim had been steeling himself for that answer, found that in spite of his preparations the sting of it was excruciating. "You're going to back to your partner."

Spock's eyes remained closed, but he nodded. "In a way."

Jim swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He didn't know what the hell "in a way" meant, he just knew it was the last thing he wanted to hear. Somehow the omission of a true "yes" made things even worse. His mind whirred as it tried to process the string of affirmations spilling from the lips of the man he loved, affirmations that were shattering everything he had planned, his hopes for their future together. "And you'll just pretend this never happened."

Spock still had his eyelids closed; at Jim's remark the muscles around his eyes contracted as if he were in pain. "I could never pretend that, Jim."

Bitter memories of both Sam and Bones walking out of his life and leaving him all by himself drifted to the surface; his face crumpled for a split second at the realization that it was happening all over again. Cursing himself for being so damned hopeful yet again, only to have that hope shattered, he tried to force his features into something more neutral, more befitting the playboy he had once been. He let out a bitter chuckle in place of tears. "You don't want to be with me, you and everyone else. Figures."

Spock's eyes flew open in surprise; one look at Jim's decimated face was enough to make him reach forward and pull Jim to him, cradling him in his arms. Jim let him; hating himself for being so weak, he leaned into the crook between Spock's face and shoulder, the scent of the man's cologne overpowering his emotions.

"_No_, you are horribly mistaken. When I told you that I loved you, Jim, I meant it."

"Then _why_. I don't understand."

Spock sighed. "Its complicated. Being with you, living out the rest of our lives together like some sort of fairy tale...that is not my destiny."

"Your dest...Spock..."

"So many times I have wanted to explain. There is something I must do—" Once again he looked down at his watch, which showed to Jim that it was quarter to five.

"There is _nothing_ you must do," Jim said fiercely, pulling away from Spock's embrace to glare at him. "Not if it convinces you that we shouldn't be together or has the remotest chance of taking you away from me. You've been a nervous wreck ever since we got here, and you keep checking your watch every five minutes like you are going to turn into a damn pumpkin at the stroke of five or something; don't think I haven't noticed."

Spock visibly flinched; Jim had second thoughts about confronting him this way but quickly pushed them from his mind. "Please be honest with me, talk to me. Let me know what's going on. Is it something I'm doing wrong, that you feel you can't be with me?" He had never said that to anyone he had dated before, not even Bones; God, Spock was making him soft. And to his surprise he really didn't care.

Spock stiffened and looked away, avoiding his eyes and any acknowledgement of what he had said. Jim realized that being angry at him was not going to solve anything; trying a different tactic, Jim shifted gears and began reasoning with him.

"Spock, please tell me, maybe I can help. Does it have to do with your partner, the idea of leaving him to be with me? Because I'll be right beside you every step of the way; hell, I'll fight the guy off with my bare hands if I have to. Is it the difference in our ages, our circumstances, our tastes? Because none of that matters one damn bit to me, and I can't believe that it honestly matters to you."

Jim paused, thinking about honesty for a moment, and continued. "There are things I haven't told you yet, about why we met the way we did, things you need to know, but those can wait. The only important thing right now is that you fully understand how much I love you, that I will do whatever it takes to stay with you. No one has to possess you anymore, not Amanda and certainly not your partner; you're safe here with me. Whatever is causing this hesitation in you, we can overcome it together."

Still no acknowledgement from Spock. Since his long-winded words were clearly failing to properly express how he felt, Jim used the last tool of persuasion that he had at his disposal; he pulled Spock's face toward his and kissed him soundly on the lips.

At first Spock kissed Jim back as if he were afraid to touch him, as if somehow just the touching of their lips would be damaging in some way. There was regret in his kiss, and sorrow, and something that seemed horribly off. It was the saddest, most heartbreaking kiss that Jim could ever remember having. He tried to counteracted that hesitation by fusing the kiss with his own warm emotions, trying to let Spock know without words just how much he loved him, that things were not as dire as he imagined them to be, that there was nothing to be afraid of. Jim poured everything he had into the kiss, hoping it would be enough.

It was so easy for Jim to forget sometimes that Spock was different than any man he had ever known, that all the upheavals in his life had surely taken a toll on him, a toll that he was trying very hard to conceal. Underneath the surface, he was actually far more fragile than he looked. Jim had at first attributed much of this fragility to Amanda's spirit dwelling in him and something inherent to her character; now he suspected that some of it was an intrinsic part of Spock as well. It was like courting a very beautiful but skittish deer; he had to take care with how he approached things with Spock or the man would simply bolt away, as he was trying to do now.

Spock pulled away and looked down, mumbling words to himself that were too low to be heard clearly. Jim leaned forward, catching a few of them as they went by. "...Too late, too late. It's not fair, it wasn't supposed to happen this way, it shouldn't have happened..." The normal cadence of Spock's voice was broken again, like a record that had been accidentally scratched; the words sounded irregular, the tone completely alien. Jim did not understand what could possibly be wrong. Spock's eyes were the clear beautiful brown they were supposed to be; he couldn't possibly under Amanda's spell again. Or could he? Had she found a way to hide herself even further within Spock, and Jim in his haste had simply missed it?

Impossible. And yet...

Suddenly Spock's shoulders stiffened and his head shot up, a strange light in his eyes as they looked straight past Jim. "But what if it isn't too late...there's still some time left, maybe I can change this..."

Jim gripped his hand tighter, allowing his diminishing hope to flare up again. "Whatever it is that you need to change, Spock, I know you can do it. _We_ can do it, together."

Spock looked at him as if he were seeing him for the first time, somewhat awestruck at the shifting winds. "Together. I never thought...no such thing as a no win scenario, you said..." He swallowed thickly, as if in disbelief that whatever he was thinking could be true. "And you will help me in the aftermath, no matter what happens?"

Jim smiled at him, his love for Spock shining through his expression. "No matter what. I promise."

Spock grinned at him, the first full grin that Jim could ever remember seeing on him; the brightness of it stole Jim's breath away. Then suddenly the look of happiness changed to one of utter horror, and he jumped up from the bench, wrestling his hands away from Jim and dashing towards the pagoda and the open space. Jim was right on his trail; Spock only managed to get a few steps away before he caught up to him, roughly grabbing his arm and turning the man around to face him. Once Jim had a hold on him again, Spock grew almost violent, desperately trying to wrestle himself from Jim's grasp.

"Let me go, Jim, for the love of God let me go! It'll be too late otherwise, you don't understand..." He looked frantically over at the pagoda, an expression of terror in his eyes, then out at the Torii gate. He looked back at Jim again, surprising him by crushing their mouths together. Spock's kiss was urgent and tender. All Jim knew at that moment was bliss.

Then all of a sudden Jim felt a punch to his gut, knocking the wind out of him. Gasping for breath, he suddenly felt his feet swept out from under him and found himself lying flat on his back, dazed at finding Spock towering above him, an almost possessed look on his face. Before Jim could blink Spock dashed toward the wooden gate surrounding the pagoda; Jim glanced over, his vision sideways, just in time to see that Spock had somehow managed to get the padlock on the gate open. He ran through the swinging door and into the small enclosed courtyard, a grey streak that was quickly swallowed up by the green hedges surrounding the entranceway as he passed through them and towards the pagoda as fast as he could.

The five story pagoda with its five magnificent roofs, its flaming red eaves and windows beckoning as the dying sun began setting behind it.

No.

_No._

Jim got up as fast as his bruised body would let him and flew over to the gate. As fast as he was, he was not fast enough; by the time he had reached it Spock had gotten the door to the pagoda itself open and had disappeared inside. Jim sprinted through the courtyard and towards the door, pushing it open and entering the pagoda's interior. A quick glance around revealed the first floor to be a storage area for relics, and in the center of the room was a circular black iron staircase. Jim looked up and was able to see flashes of Spock climbing quickly up the winding stairs, the shuffling of the man's feet on the iron steps revealing his haste to get to the top.

"_Spock_!" Jim screamed the man's name as he tore up the staircase, ignoring the screams inside his own head that told him to stop, to remember his vertigo and how he couldn't handle one flight of steps let alone the five the pagoda boasted. Jim didn't care and kept climbing up the metal staircase anyway, damning the voices of reason in his head to the fiery pits of hell.

The staircase was old and in need of repair, but it held Jim's weight and that was all that mattered. The steps were narrow, wider around the outer edges and tapering into nothing where they attached to the metal rod in the center that bound them all together. Jim was not looking at his feet, too focused on watching Spock and reaching him as quickly as possible, and soon found himself tripping and stumbling forward. He threw his hands out towards the railing to regain his balance and looked down to see what his feet were doing, the traitorous bastards. He accidentally let his eyes slide past the side of the staircase and down, down, down to where the ground stretched below him.

Ground that was at least two stories away.

He could feel the swell of panic that always accompanied his vertigo began to set in, could sense the familiar blackness creeping in around the edges of his vision. He fought back against it with every ounce of strength he had, refusing to let his mind and body be swept away in an onslaught of overwhelming terror. Because he just _had_ to make it, he just had to save Spock.

Amanda must have returned somehow, Jim realized, despite all their efforts to destroy her, despite all of Jim's assurances to Spock that he would be safe, that he would find a way to protect him. He had to stop her from going through with this madness; he couldn't let her take Spock away, not now.

He feet slowed, however, as he fought the waves of darkness, his senses quickly becoming overwhelmed. By the time he reached the third story he was practically at a crawl, grasping the iron railing like a lifeline and just trying his hardest to make it up to the top. He screamed Spock's name until he was sure he'd go hoarse, desperate to try whatever he could to get the man to stop. Three stories, three and a half. He was almost there, almost to the top and the platform above that sealed the topmost story from the others below. Just one more story to go—

But Spock had reached the top at that point and was quickly lost from sight.

Jim thought he heard a yell that was not his own, saw a body fly past the window closest to him, a body clad in grey.

_No._

A thud—the same thud a body made as it smashed into the ground, the same one he had heard the night his partner had died and then over and over again in his nightmares—could be heard outside the pagoda. There was a small crunch this time—the body must have landed on the gravel in the pagoda's courtyard instead of cement—but it was the same Goddamned sound, and it brought with it the same sickening feelings as before. Jim moved over to the platform of the fourth story, the wood beneath his feet spongy and in desperate need of replacing, and looked out of the window towards the ground below.

Yes, there was a body there, unmistakably Spock's, lying facedown in the gravel, his grey hair and suit horribly disheveled in the fall. The body was positioned awkwardly, the limbs sprawled every which way, lacking the beautiful grace that Spock had always had in life.

Would he retain this beauty in death as well?

Jim collapsed onto the steps, suddenly dizzy, grabbing onto the metal railings around him tightly until his knuckles were white with the strain. He swallowed, his throat still scratchy from the shouting, his mind still struggling to comprehend what had just happened. He passed a shaky hand in front of his face as if to try to wipe away the things he had just seen and heard, a hand that not more than five minutes ago had been touching a living, breathing Spock—his hands and his face and the perfect lines of his body under that impeccably tailored grey suit.

There was no need to continue farther up the staircase, to fight the blackness any more and torture himself with locating the exact spot that Spock must have stepped from before tumbling headfirst out the window. No reason, not any more. Jim stood up slowly, his hands trembling, and began descending the staircase he had been desperate to scale only minutes before. With every step it felt like he was descending further and further into his own personal hell, his mind clicking the pieces of what had happened inexorably into place.

Damn his mind; it was times like these that he wished more than anything that he didn't have the skills of a detective. He barely noticed his feet hitting the steps of the staircase, but could hear with precision the clunk his shoes made on the iron steps, echoing within the enclosed space of the pagoda, seeming to be repeating two words over and over:

Failed, failed, failed.

Dead, dead, dead.

The man he loved. The dreams he'd had for their future together. The everlasting hope that he had always placed in justice, and truth, and the absence of no win scenarios. All dead and gone and buried now, as Spock soon would be, that beautiful face and hair and eyes and mind enclosed in a casket and shoved into the unsympathetic earth. Or burned away, if Spock had planned to be cremated, crimson flames eating away at his glorious body, charring it until all that remained was was a fine black dust, shoved into a jar or scattered to the four winds. It was almost too much to bear.

His mind and body had the decency to wait until he had almost reached the bottom of the staircase before shutting down completely. As the darkness finally claimed him, the realization finally sunk in that the Spock he knew and loved as he had loved no other man was truly, utterly, irredeemably dead. He allowed the reality to pour over him and devour him whole, and he succumbed to a blackness the likes of which he had never before known, one that even the darkness of his vertigo could not hope to touch.

Failed, failed, failed.

Dead, dead, dead.

::

Author's Notes:

End of Part 1 of my story! :D Phew. Part 2 coming soon.

• The Black Hawk nightclub in the Tenderloin District was one of the premier Jazz clubs of its day; Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, Billie Holiday, Dizzy Gillespie, John Coltrane, Johnny Mathis, the Modern Jazz Quartet, and countless other greats all performed or frequented here. A lot of famous live jazz albums, like Miles Davis' first live album ever were recorded there. A story goes that one night in 1959 poet and jazz aficionado Bob Kaufman gave Holiday a bunch of handwritten poems as a present; she had no idea who he was, lol, but accepted them anyway. Jim could pick no better club to take Spock. It was closed in 1963 and was torn down; a parking lot now stands where once the greatest jazz legends stood.

• The Black Cat Cafe, a bar and dance hall in North Beach, was a San Francisco Institution, mentioned in Kerouac's "On the Road"; a place for straight and gay bohemians, writers, artists, and musicians to converge. Its notable visitors included John Steinbeck and Truman Capote, the latter of whom famously stated in the cafe that he wasn't a writer with a drinking problem but a drinker with a writing problem. In the 1950's it became the "birthplace of Gay Pride" and according to Allen Ginsberg was "the best gay bar in America." Its patrons were encouraged to be open, out, and themselves, whatever their sexuality, which at the time was revolutionary. Its live entertainment included Jose Sarria, known as the Empress Norton or Madame Butterfly, who did several drag shows a night and whose speciality was song parodies and arias from famous operas. (Also of note: Sarria was the first openly gay candidate to run for public office.) The Black Cat and its patrons were frequently harassed by the city police and suffered numerous raids and arrests. It was shut down for good on Halloween night in 1963.

• In the fall of 1957 Lawrence Ferlinghetti, co-founder of the City Lights bookstore and press, went on trial for printing and distributing Allen Ginsberg's soon-to-be seminal poem Howl, on charges of selling obscenity. On October 3 the trial finally concluded, with Judge Horn releasing his decision that Howl had literary merit and exonerating Ferlinghetti, declaring him not guilty. The trial was a big deal at the time, with many articles about the case appearing in the city papers; the publicity surrounding the arrest and trial helped springboard Ginsberg and his poem into stardom. (In January I got to see the film "Howl" at Sundance, yaaaaay; it depicts scenes from the trial and the arguments made for and against the poem that took place in the courtroom. It is a pretty experimental film but really good; if you get a chance to see it, you should. I keep meaning to do a writeup of the movie and my take on it and the Sundance experience; hopefully that will be out by the and of the month.)

• All of the features of the garden that Spock points out, with the exception of the Torii gate, are currently in the Japanese Tea Garden and would also have been in 1957. I honestly didn't know a lot of the symbolism in the garden when I visited there; it was to me, like it was to Jim, just a really pretty place. I bought a book in the gift shop about Japanese gardens in northern California, and it mentions all of these things in there. I'm glad I know now though, as I one day plan to go back and will thus feel super smart. :D

• Along with the Hagiwara house, the Shinto shrine was torn down during the war, most likely because it represented a pagan religion and because of the anti-Japanese sentiment at the time, though most of my sources understandably tiptoe around this. A lot of goodwill has been given to the garden over the years from both Japan and the city, most likely to heal the wounds of the past and bury the hatchet, but if you squint you can read between the lines. The buddhist pagoda had been off to the left of the shrine on the west, and they just moved it into the space created by destroying the shrine. (If you look at the layout of the garden, though, it was obviously build with the shrine in mind, so IMO the pagoda feels slightly sacrilegious being there, but ah well. Is one of the funny quirks of the garden apparently.) The Torii gate, however, was not torn down with the shrine, and would have still been there in 1957. It is gone now, sadly, but the penance steps are still there for anyone who feels up to climbing them.

• I actually sat on the bench mentioned in this chapter during my time wandering the garden, hah. It's such a lovely spot, and I decided that with the gate and pagoda there as well, it would be the perfect frame for their final conversation.

• A lot of the lines in the garden scene were lifted directly from the San Juan Baptista scene in Vertigo. They are such lovely lines, how could I resist putting them in my homage? Here are some of the lines in question, exactly as they appear in the movie/screenplay:

"I love you Madeline...I love you too... too late, too late...there's something I must do...No, there's nothing you must do...It's not fair, it's too late. It wasn't supposed to happen this way, it shouldn't have happened...let me go...You believe that I love you?...And if you lose me, you'll know that I loved you and wanted to go on loving you...I won't lose you...No one possesses you anymore, you are safe with me....Please. Because I love you." (If I missed any, sorry!)

• I loved these lines too: "There are things I have to tell you, about how we met, and why we are together. But they can wait. The only important thing now is that I love you and I'm going to keep you safe." That is not in the movie, but is uttered by Scottie in the screenplay. I loved the idea that Scottie was willing to confess everything, that he wanted no more secrets between them; the movie makes that point much more vague. Jim is equally noble, so I thought he should say something similar; thus lines that never made it onto the screen have made it into my story. :D

• So if I had been a smarter person, I would have realized from the start of planning out my story that the pagoda was the perfect place for Spock to die. But I didn't; even on the day I toured the garden that wasn't the plan at all. I'd been thinking of other places—Coit tower for instance—but eventually realized it had to happen there. I liked the symbolism of Spock's death desecrating not one but two religious spots, because my evil brain likes the irony. And it is of course a suitable height for Jim to be unable to make it to the top. But truthfully? One of the largest factors was that the pagoda is actually a lovely scarlet red, which fits beautifully with my color scheme. Yes, I am shamelessly shallow sometimes. ;)

• If I had been smarter and realized I would be using the pagoda earlier, I would have inquired to someone working there what the interior of the pagoda actually looks like. All my google searching turned up nothing, sadly. So after a little research into what the interiors of pagodas are normally used for, I designed it to look the way I wanted, with the circular staircase fitting one of my motifs. Hitch wouldn't have minded, I'm sure; San Juan Baptista was the perfect location for his movie, but its bell tower had been burnt down. So Hitch had a fake one designed and painted into the scenes. So really, I'm just following precedence. ;)

• Master that he was, Hitch has the camera linger during the scene where Scotty descends the staircase in the tower after Madeleine plunges to her death and forces us to watch him for an amazingly long time. One of the Vertigo blogs I looked at described the scene as Scottie's descent into hell, into madness. It is so true, so I have a line in there referencing just that sentiment. Poor Jim! (Hugs him.)


End file.
